


like sleep to the freezing

by stardustlupin



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: A little, Aftercare, Anal Sex, Angst, Beta Read, Blow Jobs, Bottom Lambert (The Witcher), Daddy Dom Eskel (The Witcher), Daddy Dom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Daddy Kink, Fluff, Frottage, Hair Washing, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, My First Smut, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Praise Kink, Rimming, Smut, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Lambert (The Witcher), Soft Vesemir (The Witcher), Sub Lambert (The Witcher), Subdrop, Top Eskel (The Witcher), Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Under-negotiated Kink, Winter At Kaer Morhen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28111173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustlupin/pseuds/stardustlupin
Summary: Lambert and Geralt don't have with each other what they each have with Eskel, not by halves. But when Geralt walks in on them one winter, well... things change, fast, and in more ways than any of them could have imagined.Or, the one where Lambert has a daddy kink and a whole lot of trauma, and Eskel and Geralt just want to love him.*reposting this as a one-shot like originally intended.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Lambert, Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Lambert, Lambert & Vesemir (The Witcher)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 114





	like sleep to the freezing

**Author's Note:**

> the past sexual abuse and past child abuse tags apply to Lambert's past, which is talked about non-explicitly. He also experiences a brief flashback where he remembers and 'hears' abusive language. Please read the endnotes so you can skip these sections if you need to.

Decades from now, Geralt still won’t know what makes him do it. He knows what they’re doing, obviously. He had long ago become accustomed to the specific spice of their sex — the warm richness of Eskel’s frankincense mixed with the almost sweet bite of Lambert’s cinnamon and nutmeg. The smell only gets stronger as he draws nearer the armoury, becomes thick and cloying. He can’t help but wonder if he and Eskel make such a big stink too. He should turn around, walk away — it wouldn’t be the first time his plans were foiled by their proclivity for fucking in public places, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last.

But he’s not paying attention this time, really, occupied as he is by the single minded intent of acquiring a new whetstone. He’d lost his a couple weeks ago and ended up having to fight a kikimore with dull swords. Had to make the climb up the mountain with a gash across his thigh. It was healed now, but the scar was still fresh. Tight. Annoying as fuck. So he stalks the keep with blind purpose, and complete disregard for the other witchers. 

The door’s wide open, because of course it was. Lambert’s an exhibitionist at heart, always snapping and snarking in some desperate bid for attention. Geralt could never understand what Eskel saw in him. For all intents and purposes Kaer Morhen’s youngest son is, to put it mildly, a prickly arsehole. It’s a wonder Eskel sees fit to spend so much time in it. Not that Geralt and Lambert _never_ get it on, but it’s always a quick hand when they’re drunk and Eskel isn’t around, or a mouth for a lost bet or round of Gwent. They don’t have with each other what they each have with Eskel, not by halves. 

Geralt pulls himself short when he reaches the door. The sight that greets him is… curious. To say the least. Eskel has Lambert pinned against the wall, pressing against his back. The smaller man’s trousers are pooled at his ankles, his shirt rucked up where Eskel’s hands grip his waist. His eyes are closed, face flushed an almost delicate, burning pink, and slack with bliss as Eskel snaps his hips, pounding into him at a ruthless pace. And Lambert is _mewling_ , letting out soft, breathless whimpers that stir something hot and molten in Geralt’s gut. 

Lambert’s hand creeps towards his cock, trapped between his stomach and the wall, but Eskel snatches his wrist. “You come on my cock or not at all little lamb,” he commands gruffly, with an entirely unfamiliar bite of possessive authority, his lips moving against the smaller man’s ear. Geralt watches as the arc of skin and cartilage turns a brilliant red. 

Lambert whines, chokes out a desperate fountain of _please please please_ when Eskel makes a small adjustment, angling his hips in a way that sets his legs quivering. Eskel must sense something Geralt doesn’t, because he clamps his hand on Lambert’s mouth the moment before the younger man lets out a long, guttural moan and paints the wall, his shirt, his stomach with his pearly white release. His body goes limp, held up only by the bear of the man who quickly follows him tumbling over the edge, pressing in deep and holding there with a stuttered sigh. 

He brings the hand on Lambert’s mouth down to join the other in stroking the smaller man’s flanks gently, soothingly. “So good lamb, so good,” Geralt can hear him whisper, so quietly he almost misses it. “You’re always so good for me, so perfect,” he says as he plants gentle kisses on either side of Lambert’s neck. Geralt notices then that Lambert’s cheeks look wet, smells the sharp tang of his tears, but — _curiouser and curiouser_ — he glows the more Eskel praises him, salt giving way to the warm-bread smell of happiness. Eskel turns him around, and mouths at the blushed skin, kisses his eyes softly, sweetly as he keeps up his litany of praises. Geralt can’t help but think they’re well deserved. 

Then Lambert’s head drops to Eskel’s chest, and the larger man wraps his arms around his shoulders, holding him close, stroking his neck. All of a sudden the moment feels far too intimate. Geralt leaves, all thoughts of a whetstone flung far from his mind. 

.o.O.o.

“You’re crying again.” Eskel cups Lambert’s jaw with both hands, brushes the delinquent tears away with calloused thumbs. His face is arranged in the likeness of passivity, but there is no mistaking the edge of demanding concern in his voice, the unasked _why?_

“Don’t, Eskel. Please.” Lambert looks imploringly at the air above his shoulder, voice hoarse. It’s hard to say whether it’s from the sex or sadness.

“Okay lamb,” is all Eskel can think to say as he pulls Lambert’s mouth open with a thumb on his lower lip. Kissing him slow and deep, scrolling the roof of his lover’s mouth with the tip of his tongue. “At least let me look after you now, yeah?” 

He gets a nod in response, and crouches down to lick as much seed as he can from Lambert’s skin. The youngest wolf bucks at the feel of Eskel’s tongue on his inner thigh, but he’s held in place by those strong hands pinning his hips against the wall. “Ssh little lamb ssh.” Eskel smoothes his palms down the sides of the smaller man’s legs and up again, kneading his hips in gentle circles. “None of that now. I’m just trying to get you a little cleaner.” He tugs Lambert’s trousers up and ties the laces. Grabbing the cleanest looking oil cloth within reach, he wipes off the seed spattered on the wall and tosses the cloth onto a nearby table. _Sorry Vesemir_. “There’s still a few hours before dinner. Come lie down with me.”

“Yeah, alright.”

Eskel hasn’t stopped touching Lambert the whole time, needing the reassuring feel of Lambert, solid under his hands, as if he’s afraid he’ll disappear otherwise. Even now, as they make their way to Eskel’s room, the larger man places a wide hand on the small of Lambert’s back, then slides it up to his shoulder, pulling him close and planting a kiss on his crown. Lambert’s lack of protestation at the casual affection is not unusual, exactly, but Eskel can’t help but worry anyway, as he always does when Lambert lapses into these strange, post-coital silences. 

It’s not a lazy, afterglow sort of calm, is the thing. It doesn’t happen every time they fuck, not even every time they fuck rough, but sometimes Lambert starts crying, and he’ll look… wrought, after. Curled in on himself, a ruminative crease carved deep between his eyebrows. He won’t tell Eskel what’s wrong, but he’ll let him kiss it better. Most days it’s enough. _Today_ it’s enough.

It’s enough to kiss him slow, and sweetly. It’s enough to walk him to Eskel’s room with a hand on his back. It’s enough to wipe his skin clean with the softest washcloth Eskel owns, and put him in a clean shirt and braes. It’s enough to lay him down, and tuck him under the covers, and kiss his jaw, his chin, his lips, his eyes, the crease carved deep in his brow. It’s enough to fuss him until his skin is smooth again, and his scent is clean, and his eyes are drooping shut, and he drapes himself over Eskel’s chest, his hand gripping lightly in Eskel’s hair, his nose brushing Eskel’s neck. 

It’s enough, really. It’s enough. 

.o.O.o.

Geralt is perplexed, to say the least. Despite the early winter temperatures, and the light cotton clothes he usually wears around the keep when he isn’t training or helping with repairs, his skin feels heated, and the heat is coming from _inside_ him. His mouth feels… wet, for lack of a better word. He’s lightheaded. He isn’t _stupid_ — he knows what this is. If anything, the semi he has to deal with as he walks back to his room leaves little room for denial. The question is _why?_ What part of what he just witnessed turned him on? Was it the thrill of seeing something he shouldn’t? Was it Eskel? Does _he_ want Eskel to pin him like that? Treat him nice and rough — _dominating_ him? 

No. It can’t be that. If he was into that sort of thing he would have figured it out by now. No, the only possible answer is _Lambert._ Lambert has him feeling this way; hot at dizzy and, if he were being honest, _really fucking hungry._

He throws himself on his bed, not bothering to change the sheets, covered as they are with three seasons worth of dust. All that can wait. Unpacking his bags can wait. Procuring a new whetstone can wait. Bathing, eating — it can all wait. Geralt stares at the ceiling for hours, watching the light shift, change, fade as he tries to figure out what it was exactly about _Lambert_ of all fucking people could be making him feel this way. 

Was it how helpless he looked? Geralt ponders as his hand drifts to his cock, palming it over fabric. Was it those pretty little sounds he was making? Geralt dips inside his trousers, taking himself in hand with long, thoughtful strokes. Or was it how desperately the young wolf seemed to want it — how his eyelashes fluttered, how he begged for more, how loose and pliant he became in Eskel’s hands, letting himself be wrecked to the point of tears and fucking liking it. 

Geralt’s hips jerk in answer as he comes hard, out of nowhere. He spills all over his hand, seed seeping into the fabric of his clothes. He hasn’t come like that in fucking decades. Not since years before he was even on the path, and he found himself thinking too much about the boy with floppy black hair that fell in curtains on either side of his face. 

_Fuck._ He has a crush on Lambert. 

.o.O.o.

Lambert’s gone when Eskel wakes up, which isn’t much of a surprise, but a pang of disappointment still resounds in his chest, escaping in a huff of a sigh. The largest wolf follows the smallest’s musk, like spiced cider, down to the kitchens where it mingles with the stony riverbank of Vesemir’s, the snowy forest of Geralt’s, and the cloying, absolutely divine scent of roasted root vegetables and venison; their feast to celebrate the return of the last of their brothers expected back at Kaer Morhen this winter. It’s the smell of home, and family, or as close to it as Eskel knows. He takes a deep, appreciative breath.

“Morning sleeping beauty,” Lambert drawls, his upper body sprawled across the table, temple propped up on his hand and a smirk plastered on his face.

“Morning charming,” Eskel replies, stooping down to kiss him directly on the lips. He claps him on the shoulder as he moves to help with the final preparations, not bothering to watch the flush of embarrassment that spreads across Lambert’s face, though he does enjoy the heat it lends his scent. 

“Lambert, get the mead will you?” Vesemir orders. _Mead_ , home-brewed by Vesemir during the warmer months to make sure they had a healthy stock for winter. Perhaps a questionable priority to have but, well, _you_ try getting through months stuck looking after degenerative puppies sober.

“Make pretty boy do it.”

“I’m already setting the table.” Geralt says — _mumbles_ — gruffly, trying to school a flush from rising to his face, and failing, if the curious look Eskel shoots him is any indication to go by. It’s ridiculous, really. Lambert calls him pretty boy all the damn time.

“I’ll go,” Eskel offers, ever the peacekeeper, lightly tousling Lambert’s hair.

“No, I can do it.” Lambert grumbles as he hauls himself up and heads to the cellars, pride not permitting him to accept any more from Eskel today. Sometimes Eskel thought that his reputation for being difficult was somewhat undeserved; he could always play Lambert like a bard did a lute. 

It’s not long before he comes back up, hauling a large oak cask over his shoulder. Without having to be asked, Lambert retrieves four tankards, and taps the cask. He pours about an inch into one, drinks but doesn’t swallow. He draws a considering frown on his face, looks up to one side, then the other as he makes his evaluation. Vesemir huffs and rolls his eyes, marking his exasperation at his youngest’s theatrics.

Said youngest finally swallows with an audible gulp, and loudly smacks his lips. “Is that hazelnut and a hint of elderflower I taste?”

“Yes.”

“Not bad, old wolf,” he says approvingly, filling all four tankards near to the brim. Vesemir lets a small, pleased smile slip across his face in spite of himself. 

Three winters after the massacre, Vesemir thought it might be best to make the keep a little more self-sufficient, now that there were less people bringing supplies home on a regular basis. He planted a herb garden, a vegetable patch, and procured some bees from a Kaedwani beekeeper. Initially, he thought only to keep them for honey, and use their wax for soap, but as it turned out, he’s an excellent apiarist and there was more honey than he knew what to do with. So, he thought, why not make mead? And mead fit for a witcher at that? Geralt, Eskel, and Remus were just happy to have a steady supply of booze for the cold, harsh months, but Lambert called the batch he made that year “drinkable”.

The following winter the obnoxious young Wolf returned with a recipe he won off a Toussainti brewer. He tested it, made his amendments, and deigned to teach it to Vesemir.

“My mead’s fine pup,” he’d groused, more than a little offended.

“Oh, just try it old man.” He literally shoved the tankard to Vesemir’s mouth, leaving him no choice but to drink it, or be soaked in mead. Some spilled on him anyway, but the deed was done and there was no denying it. The little bastard’s brew was better than his. Vesemir had no choice but to learn from Kaer Morhen’s littlest wolf. It took five years to get it up to snuff without supervision, and this past year he felt confident enough to experiment a little with the flavour. 

That Lambert’s compliments mean a lot to him is a secret Vesemir will take with him to his pyre, but a smile is silent and costs nothing, or so the saying goes. 

They had given up taking meals in the main hall that first winter after everything went to shit. It was too cold, too quiet, too haunted by the scraping and chattering and laughter of hundreds of brothers, sons and mentors they would never see again. So they ate in the kitchen instead, Vesemir claiming his token seat at the head of the table, with the others on either side. With Remus wintering in the south, it was just the three pups this year. 

In the beginning, Geralt and Eskel had stuck together like glue, as they always had, but it didn’t last long. Eskel was a big man with a heart to match, and it went out to Lambert — the only survivor of his class, the youngest surviving Wolf by nearly fifty years. Eskel invited him to drink with them, play gwent with them, to trade stories and wrestle. They grew closer, and eventually he invited Lambert into his bed — but for that it was just the two of them. 

They don’t always sit together at meals but for the first few days back it’s near impossible to stop Eskel from fussing over Lambert like a mother bear. Usually everyone just ignored it — Eskel’s affection is a force to be reckoned with, and they all know from experience that Lambert had little choice but to roll over and accept it — but usually Geralt didn’t start his winter watching them fuck in the armoury. It changes things, apparently.

Now he notices how Eskel sits with his thigh pressing against Lambert’s, bumping elbows. How every so often he leans over to press a kiss into the smaller man’s hair, his temple, his face. He nibbles an ear between bites of food. It would be disgusting if Eskel wasn’t known to give Lambert a proper scrubbing almost as soon as he set foot in the keep. 

“What the fuck are you staring at?” Lambert snaps, levelling Geralt with a scornful look. Given his new found attentiveness, Geralt notices first that Eskel immediately starts stroking the back of Lambert’s neck, as if calming a horse, and then that under the bitter stench of the younger wolf’s anger, he can smell the sour note of something like fear. 

“Nothing,” he mumbles, dropping his eyes to his plate and bowing his head, as if in submission. It’s a peculiar enough display that even Vesemir shares an incredulous look with the other two.

.o.O.o.

It takes three days before Lambert finally gets irritable enough for Eskel to give him some space. Geralt uses this time to observe more, devise a strategy. 

For all of Lambert’s crude bluster, Geralt realises, there’s a distinct shyness about him he never noticed before, or would have expected. Eskel is always the instigator of affection — kissing him quickly, pulling him into crushing bearhugs, or onto his lap once Vesemir’s gone to bed and they’re all a little tipsy. But even so, whenever Lambert startles or snipes, the older man switches to soft touches — a light hand on the back of his head or between his shoulders, a gentle squeeze of his elbow or thigh, a silent or murmured apology. Eskel is deeply attuned to Lambert’s body language, and even after so many winters (and what their sexual escapades might suggest) is careful with him. If Geralt wants the young wolf, he’s going to have to learn to do the same. 

He starts small, brushing Lambert’s hand as he passes him his sword before training. He doesn’t grip, but the act is slow, and firm enough that it can’t be mistaken for accidental. Lambert hooks a quizzical eyebrow, then looks down and away _._ That night, instead of clapping Lambert on the shoulder as they part for bed, he puts his hand on his back, and swipes his thumb once over his neck. From the corner of his eye, he sees Eskel and Lambert share a startled look.

He tries to increase the weight of his advances gradually, endeavouring to gauge a pace Lambert is comfortable with, while also watching for indicators of returned interest. On the one hand Lambert seems more hostile — talking back more, pushing unnecessarily hard during training, and generally being a dick. But his body always leans into Geralt’s touch, as if by instinct, and his scent is never angry. In fact, it smells almost like some sort of happiness, but… off. Somehow. _Tainted_.

It’s only when Geralt comes up behind him in the kitchen and puts a hand on the middle of his back, that he figures it out. His vision goes black, pain shooting up his spine where he’s slammed into the table with a snarled _the fuck are you doing?_ But Lambert doesn’t wait for an answer, shoving past him to get out. Whirling in the air where Lambert was is the sour, almost imperceptible note. He pulls out a bottle of Mahakam ale over gwent that night, offering it as an unspoken apology. Lambert accepts, brushing his fingers over the back of Geralt’s as he does. 

Eskel, to his immense surprise, starts _helping_. 

In recent years, the beginnings of winter were spent trying to do as much repairs to the curtain wall as possible before the heavy snows come in, while also patching up new holes in the outer walls and ensuring that they had a hearty supply of meats and firewood. It makes the shortening days seem long, and was really, _really_ fucking tiring. At days end there’s always at least dirt and mortar caked to their skin with the help of dried sweat, and everyone is stiff everywhere. Fucking awful, sure, but nothing a good soak in the hot springs can’t fix. This winter is no exception.

Geralt is already scrubbed off and half asleep by the time Eskel and Lambert walk in, blood crusted on their arms from cleaning and curing an elk Vesemir brought in this morning. “Fucking shit this hurts.” Lambert groans as he lowers his aching body into the scorching water. “Eskel could you…?” He asks, gesturing to his back. 

The man in question takes on a familiar expression, one that might say _hey Geralt let’s go tie a rope around a massive fucking bee._ “Tired little lamb. Ask Geralt.” He leans back, arms spread on the lip of the pool, eyes closed, except for when he shoots Geralt a cheeky little wink, the _bastard_.

Lambert looks put out only for a split second before he starts scowling. 

“Come here then,” Geralt says before the moment passes. 

“It’s fine.” Lambert snaps.

“Don’t want to hear you moaning about it all night.” Geralt wades over slowly, taking Lambert by the elbow and pulling him back over to the steps skirting the pool. He sits on the highest one, the water coming midway up his chest, and settles Lambert a step below, between his knees.

It’s nothing neither of them haven’t done with Eskel before, or even Vesemir when the old Wolf was feeling generous. Really, if anything, the most surprising thing about the situation is that Lambert and Geralt _haven’t_ done this before. The younger man sits with his back ramrod straight, and tries to give Eskel a withering look from the corner of his eye. The effect is more than slightly comical. 

“Relax little lamb,” he chuckles. “Geralt doesn’t bite unless you ask him to.”

Geralt kicks out to dig his foot into Eskel’s side, throwing the bear of a Wolf into the water and a fit of self-satisfied laughter. He can feel the heat explode across Lambert’s shoulders under his hands, and strokes lightly, twice, so that Lambert can get used to his touch. “He’s right you know,” he murmurs so that only Lambert can hear. “I won’t bite, and this really only works if you relax for me.” _For me._ He doesn’t remember deciding to repeat Eskel’s words from a fortnight ago, but the shivers they send running up Lambert’s spine are not lost on him, nor the way he sinks immediately, if only a little, into Geralt’s hands.

Lambert’s always been smaller than most. It’s a sore spot for him that even the mutagens didn’t quite get him to the same height or width as most Wolf School witchers. Sure, out in the world his stature is rivalled only by the burliest of butchers and blacksmiths, but in the walls of Kaer Morhen he’s, well, sort of runty. As a trainee it was primarily this, followed by his bad attitude, that made everyone bet against him surviving the trials, then training, then his first year on the Path. Geralt never participated, having found betting the lives of children inexcusably crass, but secretly he agreed. 

Lambert, however, is a contrarian by nature, and wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of being right. He trained harder, observed his betters more closely, studied alchemy and the bestiary with a vigour to parallel the masters. He stopped brawling with anyone and everyone at the drop of a hat, instead sharpening both his wits and his anger to a fine point cold enough to burn. So he survived as he did most things, out of spite.

Though, looking at him, sat between his knees, slight and warm, his muscles coiled with anxiety, his smell fraught with it. Geralt can’t help but wonder just what, and how much exactly he’s been missing about the young man. Because he has been missing a lot. The past two weeks have made that abundantly clear.

“Alright up there pretty boy?” Lambert aims for casually snide, but Geralt can hear the roiling undercurrent of nerves. 

“You’re still tense,” he says, because Lambert is. Never mind that Geralt had completely lost track of what he’s meant to be doing. 

Returning to the present, he starts kneading Lambert’s shoulders, his movements slow and even. He marvels at how neatly they fit in his palms as he presses his thumbs into the tight muscles on his uppermost back, either side of his neck, pushing them up along his vertebrae to his hairline, stretching out the cords of his spine. It’s not long before Lambert’s head rolls back, surrendering entirely to the tempered strength of Geralt’s hands. 

Those hands slide lower, working out all the tension from his waist to his head with practiced strokes, digging in deep, but staying as gentle as possible. Geralt leans over, suddenly caught by a steamy curl of fancy, and takes in Lambert’s scent with a long, deep breath.

“Fuck are you doing?” Those nerves again, more pronounced than they were before. Decidedly the opposite effect Geralt is after.

“You stink.”

“We’re in a bath.” Lambert points out, though he’s not sure to what exactly. 

“I mean you still smell tense.”

“Yeah, well. You’re being weird.”

Geralt hums impassively in response. His hands leave Lambert just long enough for him to twist and pick up the bar of soap he’d brought for himself. Dipping it into the water, he turns it over and over in his hands, working up a lather. He runs his fingers over Lambert’s scalp, from back to front so that his hair stands on end, making him look rather like a hedgehog. It’s an endearing look really, and Geralt continues his ministrations with a small, upward quirk to his lips. The beeswax loosens as he rubs the fine strands of Lambert’s hair between his fingers, and he pushes down on Lambert’s crown to signify that he should dunk. To Geralt’s surprise, he does, and then allows Geralt to continue washing his hair, thick, surprisingly deft fingers massaging his scalp in small circles. 

Lambert leans back into the touch. His eyes flutter closed. The sour scent of anxiety dissipates completely, replaced with something warm and buttery. A sort of pride swells in Geralt’s chest, knowing that he made that happen. 

“Keep that up and he’s going to fall asleep.” Eskel’s voice abruptly tugs them out of their shared reverie. Geralt stills; Lambert blushes. 

“I think you’re good.” Slapping him twice on the shoulder, Geralt gets out of the pool, and walks away. 

Eskel and Lambert watch his receding back; wait until they can no longer hear his footsteps.

“What the fuck was that?”

Eskel shrugs. “Think he likes you,” he says simply, swimming over to give Lambert a proper bath. The little Wolf stares at the exit, fixated and more than a little flummoxed.

.o.O.o.

It won’t stop — this thing with Geralt. No matter how much snark and vitriol Lambert throws at him, the golden boy remains stubbornly and annoyingly benign. Fucking _patient_ even. Always looking at him in this funny way — like he’s smiling at him or something. Always backing off when he makes a wrong move — like he _knows_ Lambert isn’t just angry — and then coming back with some token of apology; booze, extra fruit or bread at breakfast, a thick blanket he’d found but apparently had no need for. He even backs off Eskel a bit, giving Lambert extra time in the warmth of his bed. 

It all comes to a head, as these things usually do, over gwent. About a week after that first back massage.

“Tired of taking your money little Wolf. Why don’t you say we make things a bit more interesting?”

Eskel perks up at that, rising slightly from his sprawl across the table, having long ago lost interest in the game. They know what’s coming, of course. It happens every winter. Had happening been since before Lambert went on the Path, and these halls were filled with hundreds more. Booze was meant to be shared, and no one could, in good conscience, send a brother back out into the world without a coin to their name come spring. Still, Lambert is having a terrible run. Seems like a bit of a dirty trick. 

“What do you have in mind?” He asks, nonchalantly thumbing his cards. There’s no way he’s going to win this round. Geralt must know that. 

“Blowjobs?” Not even a simple wank. Someone _is_ feeling cocky tonight.

Fuck it. “Fine.” It won’t be the first time he has to suck pretty boy off and it certainly won’t be the last. At least this way Geralt might stop acting like a sanctimonious prick and making like he wanted Lambert for something other than sex.

Lambert plays his hand. Geralt plays his — and he fucking _loses_. 

Lambert stills with shock. Eskel is far, far too amused for his liking, and smiles at Geralt like he approves. 

“Fuck,” Geralt curses, without so much as the suggestion of heat, his lips curling in that insufferable little smile. For someone being forced to suck cock, he looks awfully predatory. “Suppose that’s my fault for tempting fate,” he says, sliding out from behind the table, walksing round to Lambert and dropping to his knees. His fingers move to the ties of Lambert’s trousers. “You want money instead?”

“Deals a deal, pretty boy.” Lambert manages to keep his voice more or less even. “Snap to it.”

“Cheeky,” Geralt retorts, still smiling, unlacing Lambert’s trousers, pulling them down and his cock out. “So soft,” he teases. “I thought you said I was pretty.” All the blood in Lambert’s body rushes to the wrong head. “Guess I’m just going to have to fix that.” And by _gods_ does he know how.

Geralt grips Lambert’s hips lightly for balance, bows his head, licks once with the flat of his tongue from the tip of Lambert’s cock to the base. He takes the head into his mouth, sloppily swirling around it. Taking it in a sword-rough hand he tugs insistently from the base to his own lips until he can feel the flesh heating, swelling, throbbing against his lips. Hand returning to Lambert’s hip, he relaxes his jaw and expertly works his way down Lambert’s shaft with nimble bobs of his head.

Lambert has a white-knuckle grip on the bench, keeping himself from thrusting up even as Geralt slides home. The friction from his hand was just shy of agonising, and now the wetness of his mouth is making Lambert’s chafed skin fucking _sing._ Geralt works the thick vein on the underside of his cock with wicked precision, making him squirm — his body begging for more even as it struggles to get away. Geralt looks up at him with a smug glint in his eyes, hollowing his cheeks and starts thrusting with yet more vigour.

“Fuck — shit — fuck — I’m gonna,” Lambert frantically sputters between groans, trying to wiggle out of Geralt’s mouth, as is customary with this sort of thing. The grip on his hips tightens, holding him in place as the other man sinks down to the hilt once again, the head of Lambert’s cock notching in his throat. Geralt growls in satisfaction, the vibrations wrenching Lambert’s orgasm from him, shockwaves of pleasure rippling through his body as he’s milked for all he’s worth. He can feel Geralt’s throat tightening around him as he swallows, then, after he pulls back, Geralt’s tongue lapping at his head, pressing in his slit to get every last drop.

For a too-long moment, the only sound is Lambert’s ragged pants, echoing in the cavernous hall, then a wet, obnoxiously loud pop when Geralt pulls off.

Tender fingers tuck his cock, soft, spent, and aching in the sudden cold, back inside his trousers. “Think I’m done for the night,” Geralt says, his voice more hoarse than it was before, but just as flippant, and then is gone — the only trace of him the faint spice of arousal lingering in his wake.

“Told you he likes you.” Eskel drains his tankard and sets it back on the table with a loud thunk. “Let’s get you to bed little lamb. You look shagged.”

.o.O.o.

“It’s only four days. Five at most.” Eskel murmurs, his lips tingling where they brush downy hair. He has a hand on Lambert’s stomach, thumb grazing the dips and lines of his lover’s firm body, softened somewhat by a healthy layer of fat; the product of a couple weeks worth of rest and hearty food. He nuzzles into earthy brown locks — silky now they’ve spent some time under the care of Vesemir’s honey and oatmeal soap. The tip of his nose kisses Lambert’s scalp as wave after wave of warm, buttery happiness crashes against his senses, drawn forth by the gentle touches.

They’re in Eskel’s bed, stark naked but not doing anything other than basking in the feel of skin on skin. Lambert lays on his back, his head resting on Eskel’s bicep, his side pressed against the dense cushion of Eskel’s torso, the back of his hand lightly grazing the sleeping dragon between Eskel’s thighs, giving it featherlight caresses with his knuckles every so often.

“Yeah and as soon as you fucking get down the fucking pass is going to fucking snow over.” He’s probably right, but Vesemir is insisting on taking advantage of the unseasonably mild weather and making one last supply run, mumbling something about how ‘one can never have too much flour.’ They’re all very certain it has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the miller, who, to be fair, is rather attractive in a homely sort of way.

“I’ll bring you back something nice,” Eskel promises, his mind already casting out for ideas. There’s a carpenter who moonlights as a puzzle-maker. Lambert’s _obsessed_ with them, but can rarely spare the coin to buy one. A damned shame; he always looks so bloody adorable while he tries solving one — eyebrows knitted together, tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth in concentration. Kaer Morhen could crumble around him and he wouldn’t notice.

Admittedly, it won’t exactly be a selfless expense; Eskel harbours hope that one suchpuzzle might provide a solution to a problem he’s always had with his little lamb. Namely, the younger man is deeply averse to have his cock warmed — always squirming with the need to _do something —_ and Eskel longs to have its soft warmth filling his mouth until his jaw goes numb. He slides his hand down, cupping said cock in his hand, relishing in the feel of the velvety smooth skin resting in his palm.

“Still don’t see why you have to go.” Lambert grumbles.

“Two people can carry more.”

“But why do _you_ have to go?”

Eskel doesn’t, is the thing. Not really. _Someone_ has to go, and Vesemir just so happened to ask Eskel first, and Lambert would hate it if Eskel said he wants to stay on account of him. Besides, truth be told, he’s rather keen on escalating whatever it is that’s happening between his brothers-in-arms. It’s difficult, you see, splitting his winters between Lambert’s arse, Geralt’s cock, and — when they were on offer — Geralt’s arse, and Lambert’s cock. It would be so much more convenient if Eskel could at least get them in the same room.

Nothing so dramatic as gambling fellatio has happened since that one night, four days ago now, but things have gotten rather noticeably more… intense. Geralt openly stares, his touches heavier, more amorous; Lambert preens. The fog of arousal has become so ripe it wouldn’t be a surprise if Vesemir’s trip isn’t at least partially motivated by the need to get away from it. But then, the way Lambert’s been clinging to Eskel — hanging off his elbow, pressed against him at meals, in the springs, _hugging_ him for no reason while the work — hardly spells _enthusiasm_.

“Lambert?” Hesitant, afraid of the answer. “Is Geralt making you uncomfortable?”

On the one hand, no. Sure, it seems a bit rich that after about a decade of being a colossal dick, he’s suddenly decided to play nice because he wants his arse, but Lambert isn’t about to pass up a shot at The Golden Boy — the idol that had hovered so mysteriously, so out of reach all through his childhood and adolescence. On the other hand, something about Geralt’s behaviour suggests that he seems to _know_ , even if only intuitively, _exactly_ how Lambert wants him, and how much. It’s a moth-to-a-raging-fire state of affairs; a puppy grovelling at the boot that kicks it. Lambert’s not _scared_ , but he’s well —

As if reading his mind, Eskel is suddenly above him, eyes burning with the strength of his devotion, his need to protect the man nestled between his arms. “Don’t play games with him Lamb.”

Lambert has to scoff at that. “Pretty boy’s been playing games with me, wouldn’t you say?”

“You know what I mean,” he persists. “Just be careful with yourself, alright? Promise me.”

“Yeah. Yeah alright,” Lambert forces himself to say. He’s breathing a little too hard, too fast, and Eskel places a grounding hand on his stomach, gentling him with slow circles. 

“You wanna fuck or sleep?”

He considers a moment, knowing nothing but the truth will do. “Sleep.”

Humming his agreement, Eskel lowers himself to lay on top of Lambert, his body a warm, pleasant weight, ear pressed just above his heart, one hand holding Lambert’s ribs, the other scratching behind his ear. Both of Lambert’s hands settle on Eskel’s head, lazily carding through his hair.

.o.O.o.

They leave early the next morning, when the sun has scarcely washed the mountainside with enough light to go by. Even though they plan on only being gone a few days, there’s no denying the possibility that the weather will turn overnight, and they’ll have to stick out the rest of the winter in town. So they say their goodbyes in the courtyard, all of them still shaking off sleep.

As Lambert speaks to Vesemir, ribbing him about his newly voracious appetite for all variety of flour-based goods, Eskel takes Geralt to the side. Pulling him into a crushing embrace, Eskel murmurs in his ear, low enough to not be overheard. “Don’t suppose I need to tell you what happens if you hurt him?”

“Suppose my bollocks will become very intimate with your trophy knife,” Geralt answers, matching his brother’s tone.

Eskel pats him on the back as he pulls away. “Mm. Good man.” He almost sounds amused.

“I’d never hurt your little lamb Eskel. Surely you don’t think so lowly of me?”

“Still. Had to be said.” Geralt hums his assent, looking at Eskel with a fondness some might find strange, considering he’s just been threatened with a gelding. But they’re Eskel and Geralt, friends since boyhood, brothers-in-arms; blood of the covenant and all that. Geralt would never begrudge his brother his love, even if he still doesn’t quite understand it. He goes over to speak to Vesemir, leaving Eskel to pull Lambert into a crushing embrace.

“Be good while I’m gone, yeah? Remember what I said.”

“Alright, alright, stop fussing memama bear _.”_

A playful growl rumbles from the bear-wolf’s chest as he eyes his prey. Still wrapped in those ridiculously strong arms, Lambert can do nothing more than squirm fruitlessly as Eskel licks him with the flat of his tongue, all the way up his neck to his hairline.

“Bastard!” he yelps when he’s finally released. Eskel laughs and grabs his face in both hands, kissing once, twice, five more times.

.o.O.o.

A prolonged autumn, unfortunately, means more time working outdoors. They’d made decent progress over the years, but it’s clear they’ll be working on the eastern wall alone for fucking decades to come.

They get to work after a quick breakfast of apples and porridge Vesemir cooked and left for them. It’s physically gruelling, but soul crushingly mind numbing. Geralt falls into an easy rhythm, Lambert hates it with the fire of a thousand dragons, his brain crawling with the need for stimulation. He whines and whinges for awhile, gets bored and tries to start a fight. Geralt’s still playing at sainthood and won’t rise to the bait, so they work in relative silence for the rest of the day, broken only by Lambert’s sporadic, disgruntled mumbling and frustrated growls. Now that Geralt’s somewhat enamoured with him it’s almost cute. His lips quirk in a small smile when Lambert, for no particular reason, shouts _mother-fucking shit on a stick_ ** _._**

 **“** What the fuck are you smiling at pretty boy?” He snarls when he catches Geralt red… lipped.

“Nothing.” Geralt answers, promptly arranging his face into a state of neutrality.

With an indistinct grumble, Lambert throws down his trowel and stomps off, no doubt for a soak in the springs. It’s getting dark. Without Eskel or Vesemir to remind them they’d both clear forgot about lunch. Suddenly feeling hungry, Geralt gives the other man a few minutes head start before heading inside himself.

They bathe in silence, each man leaving the other to his own devices. They eat in silence too, a simple dinner of bread baked the day before, cured venison, and hard cheese. They wash up in silence and in silence agree to meet back in the kitchen after retrieving booze and gwent decks from their rooms. They drink, and play in _silence_ ; not a peep from either one of them. Silence so pervasive, so absolute, and so fucking _long_ it borders on ridiculous.

Lambert’s never been this quiet. His finger’s drum tunelessly on the table, his leg bounces like a jackrabbit, the air around him _zings_ with manic energy, but he doesn’t _say_ anything — doesn’t even gloat when he takes Geralt’s good cards — and he’s taking _all_ of Geralt’s good cards.

Until all of a sudden he’s entirely still. “Tired of taking all your best cards pretty boy. What do you say to making this interesting?” The air around him swirls something new, and spicy: anticipation.

“What did you have in mind?” Geralt asks, playing his part in whatever this is.

“Blowjobs?”

“Sure.” His remaining cards are useless, but he’ll happily get on his knees for Lambert again if that’s what it takes to get him into his bed.

Geralt plays his hand; Lambert plays his and… loses. For the first time that night.

“It’s a bit cold in here,” young Wolf says, eyes cast to the side. “Mind if we do this upstairs?”

Dumbstruck, Geralt can only nod in response. The bench scrapes on the stone floor as Lambert pushes away from the table, walking over to the stairs.

“You coming?” He asks, turning back to find Geralt still seated. There’s a nervous edge to his voice and something funny about his scent but Geralt doesn’t make anything of it. Can’t. It takes all his focus to keep his legs from shaking as he follows Lambert up. While he’s calculates the risk factor of putting his hand on his back, the younger man drops back suddenly. A hand slides into his, cold, and more slender. He isn’t sure whose is shaking.

Lambert doesn’t speak. Just leads them to Geralt’s room, over to his hearth where a decent enough fire still burns. He doesn’t look Geralt in the eye once as he drops to his knees, and unties the laces at the front of Geralt’s trousers. He _does_ raise an eyebrow when he sees that Geralt’s cock is already hard and leaking, but he doesn’t comment, doesn’t tease. He laps at the slit, his eyes fluttering closed as he gets that first taste of Geralt. His lips slide over the head, easily taking him down to the root.

It’s not like anything Geralt’s experienced before, least of all from Lambert. Simultaneously soft and eager, delicate and hungry. Lambert isn’t just getting the job done —he tastes, suckles, and Geralt can hear these little sighs of something like relief coming from him. Lambert keeps his palms flat on his thighs the whole time, and Geralt does his best to remember to play with his hair but it's so damn hard because he's losing his mind a little with how _good_ it feels.

Right before he comes Lambert pulls back so that just the head of Geralt's cock is in his mouth, laying on his tongue. Geralt comes hard, his seed flooding Lambert’s mouth, dribbling out onto his chin. He pulls off, and before Geralt can do or say anything he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and says, "Thank you daddy.”

He leaves the room like a shot, stirring the air as he passes and Geralt realises then what was off before — Lambert smells like sadness and fear. So he’s left standing there, without a clue as to what had just happened, or what he’s meant to do, and a host of emotions scrambling to make themselves heard whirring in his head. He lays in bed all night trying to figuring it out. He’s heard of that sort of thing before — or rather, he’d _heard_ that sort of thing before, through the thin walls of brothels, patrons asking, demanding, or pleading to call or be called “daddy” or, less frequently, “mummy.” He didn’t judge, but he never understood it. Still doesn’t. But there’s an undeniable heat pooling in his gut even now. If he thinks back, he would recall that the moment that word left Lambert’s lips, he felt a thrill mixed in with the confusion. 

In the morning the only thing Geralt knows for sure is that he sure as shit needs to talk to Lambert, but he can’t find him anywhere. He catches traces of him — in the kitchen, in the stables, but he’s always two steps ahead. Geralt _would_ leave it alone, give him space to sort out whatever he’s going through on his own, but the damp, sour stench of his misery isn’t just lingering, they getting _stronger_ and Geraltknows that it’shis fault, even if he’s not sure why.

The following day isn’t any better, so he decides to take a break from repairs to go hunt some fresh meat for dinner. It’ll do him good; a simple, familiar task that still breaks the monotony of winter at the keep and allows him to stretch his legs, but simple enough that he can use the time to get his ducks in a row. He manages to snare a couple of errant of hares, no doubt as confused by the unseasonable warmth as they are.

Back at the keep, he cleans his catch, setting the skins aside for tanning. He gathers carrots, potatoes, and onions for a stew, on a whim throwing some ale in as well. Lambert, he can tell, hasn’t been in the kitchen for hours. The acrid smell of his emotions are faint, but it permeates every crevice of the room. Geralt has no doubt that whatever Lambert’s feeling isonly getting worse.

Cooking would have been better if Lambert were there then. Even though Geralt technically has the keenest sense of smell, Lambert hands down has the most refined pallet. He would know which herbs to put in the stew, and how much. As it is, Geralt has to identify the leaves he remembered Vesemir and Lambert using by sight, and eyeball the amounts. The stew simmers, growing more fragrant, and he concludes that it might be a bit strong but not necessarily bad. Still, it’s an awful lot for just one person, so he decides to track Lambert down. 

He’s in his room, if smell’s anything to go by. The sour stench of rotting apples is so overwhelming Geralt hesitates to knock. Turns out he doesn’t have to. Flying out of his room Lambert slams him into the wall, fisting the collar of his shirt.

“What. The fuck. Do you want?” He snarls. He looks like shit; eyes are sunken, and bruised a deep red. There’re salt tracks crusted to his skin from crying. The set of his brow is supposed to convey fury, but betrays unfathomable hurt. There was a time when Geralt would have mistook the cold, burnt smell rolling from him for anger, but now he knows it for what it is; fever-pitched fear. Geralt’s not proud of it, and would feel the bite of shame when he thinks about this moment for decades to come, but he feels the near undeniable itch to run. “Listen,” Lambert continues when Geralt doesn’t say anything, “if you tell anyone about what happened, I will cut off your cock and bollocks and shove them down your throat.” He tightens his hold, shakes Geralt so that his head slams into the wall. “Are we clear?”

“Dinner.” Geralt splutters out, the image Lambert conjured making him remember why he’s there. “Made dinner. Hare stew. Ready in an hour. If you want. Made plenty.” And he runs.

He doesn’t expect Lambert to show, obviously, but he stalks into the kitchen just as he’s serving his food. He chances filling a bowl for Lambert as well, places it in front of his hunched form at the table, and sits across from him.

“Listen —” Lambert says, his eyes fixed on the table, his tone almost pleading.

Geralt doesn’t think he can handle it. “Doesn’t matter,” he says graciously, shaking his head.

“I fucking meant it,” Lambert snaps his head up to fix the older wolf with a determined glare. “You tell anyone and you’ll never fuck again, alright?” He’s doing his best to hold steady, but his heart rate picks up and his voice sounds too high even to himself. “He can’t know, you can’t tell —“

“Eskel?” Geralt cuts him off when he starts breathing too hard, and his eyes go glassy. It must be Eskel because Lambert’s never given a shit what Vesemir thinks. “Why?”

The sound of Geralt’s voice was enough to yank him back from the spiral’s edge. He takes a breath, hardens his face, meets Geralt’s eyes and shrugs. “He doesn’t like it.”

“That’s it?” Geralt asks, not believing him.

“Yeah that’s fucking it.”

“Alright then.”

Lambert looks like he’s winding himself up for a fight, but decides it’s not worth it. Geralt forgot to give him a spoon, so he goes to get one before digging in. “This is shit,” he says around his first mouthful. There’s no real bite to it, hardly any bark really, the curl of his lips and the gleam in his eyes both betraying mirth. Geralt has to agree. In the hour it took for the hare to fully cook, his stew went from ‘fragrant’ to ‘pungent’ to ‘fucking disgusting’.

“It’s pretty shit,” he agrees with a huff of laughter. They continue eating in silence, not companionable, but close enough. They drink more ale than stew, trying to kill the taste. It almost works. Of course Geralt has to fucking ruin it. “I liked it.” He almost whispers when they’ve struggled through about half a bowl and about four tankards of Vesemir’s home-brew a piece.

“What?” Lambert asks, his face the very picture of confusion. “The stew?”

“No what you — the other night. What we — what you… said.” He mumbles his confession to his bowl, surprised its contents doesn’t start boiling again.

In a move more graceful than it has any right to be, Lambert launches himself across the table, throwing Geralt to the floor and pinning him flat against the stone, hands fisting in his shirt again. Geralt has the ridiculous urge to hold him. “Don’t fucking toy with me pretty boy.” It would be a snarl if he didn’t look, and sound so bloody wounded.

“M’not.” Geralt says, his voice low, and soft. “Wouldn’t do that.”

Lambert scoffs. “You fucking hate me.”

It’s enough to punch the air right out of his lungs, because it’s not like Lambert’s wrong. The animosity between them has been far from one-sided and, now that he thinks about it, Geralt can’t even claim that his role in it has been purely reactionary. Now here he is, doing his utmost to fuck him. “I haven’t been fair to you,” he concedes, bringing his hands up to brush Lambert’s hips. They feel so much more slender than his own.

“Understatement.”

“Probably.” Geralt’s too distracted by smell of salt creeping in the air, the water threatening to spill from Lambert’s eyes, the way his body’s trembling in his hands. _Kiss it better_ a voice tells him, for a moment it sounds like Eskel, but he pushes that thought aside. He wants this moment to be just him and Lambert. With one hand he tightens his grip on Lambert’s hip, the other he slides up to the back of his neck, gently drawing him closer. Lambert’s eyes flutter closed as Geralt mouths at his eyelids.

“Don’t,” he whines. “S’not fair.” It _isn’t fair_. Years of being a self-righteous prick and what? Geralt snaps his fingers and Lambert crawls up under him? Un-fucking-believable.

“Please,” Geralt says imploringly. “Just wanna kiss you.” And _oh_ his voice is deep, and smooth as fine whisky. Lambert tries to find his lips but with his eyes still closed, misses, grazing first an eyebrow, then his nose. Geralt laughs, a small breathless thing. It’s affectionate enough that even Lambert can’t take offence.

The larger man rolls them over, cupping his hand on the back of Lambert’s head so it doesn’t hit the floor. As soon as he’s on top he realises it was a bad move because now Lambert’s back is pressed into the hard, uneven floor. The stone has been worn smooth by centuries worth of footfalls, and the cooking fire has warmed them some, but still.

He’s too distracted to do anything about it though. Lambert’s lips are _right there_ , plush, deep pink, and waiting. He leans down to brush them with his own. Lambert’s breathing hitches, and flaming tendrils of need shoot up Geralt’s spine. He tugs at Lambert’s lower lip with his teeth, eliciting a needy moan from deep within the younger man. _Say it again,_ he wants to say, _call me that again —_ but the timing doesn’t seem right.

Instead he just kisses him again, more, deeper, slower, tracing the tip of his tongue across the roof of Lambert’s mouth, drawing out those delicious, amorous little whines. Geralt swallows them all. He feels Lambert’s hands scrambling at his stomach — trying to find the ties of his trousers he realises. “Not tonight,” he murmurs into Lambert’s mouth. “You look like shit.” Lambert goes immediately rigid. _Fuck_.

“Well so do you!”

“Tired,” Geralt corrects himself, tries to continue kissing him but getting only cheek. “I mean you look tired.” He noses at Lambert’s skin, brushing his beard. It’s surprisingly soft, and Geralt has to resist the urge to rub his face against it. “We should get some sleep.”

“We?” Lambert asks, his lips angled in a teasing smirk.

“We.” Geralt repeats, trusting the warm firelight to mask his blush. “Sleep in my room tonight. You’re always cold. Storm’s brewing.” 

Lambert snorts. There hasn’t been a cloud in the sky all day. “So desperate the get me in your bed.”

“Yes.” Geralt nips his ear, grips under Lambert’s arms and stands, pulling him from up from the floor. The younger man thrashes until he’s set on his feet.

“M’not a fucking child!” he shouts, high and shrill, pink rising up his chest.

“Know you’re not. But you _are_ the littlest Wolf,” Geralt teases, prodding his ribs.

Lambert crosses his arms levels him with a hooked eyebrow, “So fucking cocky after one kiss.”

Geralt remains undeterred, turning Lambert around by the elbow, then nudges him forward with a hand between his shoulder blades. “Bed,” he insists. To his great satisfaction, Lambert uncrosses his arms, walks forward, and presses back into Geralt’s hand.

It’s surprisingly easy, walking up the Geralt’s room, sliding into his bed. But once they’re there Lambert is suddenly nervous.

“You’re not — this isn’t like a thing for you is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not going to—” he cuts himself short, shakes his head and lays down.

“Lambert, what is it?”

“Nothing. Just go the fuck to sleep,” he mumbles, his forearm covering his eyes.

Geralt pulls it away, and Lambert blinks up at him, surly, trying to ward off Geralt taking note of the anxiety in every other aspect of his body. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, alright? Stop being fucking weird.”

“You’re the one being weird.”

Lambert chews his lower lip, eyes burning holes in the furs.

“Lambert I won’t — I won’t touch you alright? If you don’t want me too, I won’t.”

“Yeah, alright. Fine.”

.o.O.o.

Geralt wakes up to an unfamiliar weight strewn across his chest, and warm, damp patch on his shirt where the corner of Lambert’s mouth it. It’s gross, really. Or it should be. Geralt can’t help but find it ridiculously endearing.

Lambert’s face is completely slack, his mouth hanging open. His usually slick-backed hair stands every which way, not unlike it did when Geralt washed it, but clumpier from the wax. Geralt wonders if he’ll be allowed to do that again, wash his hair, run his fingers through its silky softens. He wonders if he’ll ever see it like that in the morning. He stays still, not wanting to disturb the younger man’s sleep. Lambert looks better than he did last night, but would clearly benefit from another an hour or two of rest. It’s not like Vesemir’s there to drag them out of bed at the arse-crack of dawn.

The young Wolf doesn’t stir until the sun hits his face. He half lifts off Geralt’s chest, rubbing at his eye with a fist. “Fuck,” he says, taking stock of his proximity to Geralt and the drool on his shirt.

“You did that, not me.”

“Rub it in why don’t you.”

Geralt laughs again, that short, almost silent laugh. “Vesemir isn’t here, you can sleep a bit more if you want.” He wonders how well it would go over if he kissed the top of Lambert’s head, but decides it’s not worth the risk.

“Don’t be fucking stupid. Wall’s not going to fix itself,”

“Since when are you responsible?”

“Since the wall of the place I’m staying in is fucking broken.”

“It’s only the curtain wall.”

“ _It’s only the curtain wall,_ ” Lambert mimics, _“_ fuck, if Papa Vesemir could hear you now.” Geralt has to snort at that. “What? Like you’re not his golden boy?”

“Didn’t ask to be.”

“Yeah, well. Happened didn’t it.” He says it so casually, guards his face so carefully, and there’s a sadness in that — in the very fact of his defences — that’s hard to miss. Of course, Geralt’s missed it for years.

“I guess.” Geralt stares pensively at the ceiling. He should say something. He should tell him that he’s just a good a witcher as any of them, that neither he nor Vesemir think as lowly of him as Lambert thinks they do, that he’s scarcely been on the path a decade so it’s really not a fair comparison anyway — but then Lambert rolls off the bed, and the moment’s over.

It _did_ end up snowing the night before, and a thin blanket of the stuff covers the courtyard, making the sun seem that much brighter. It’s not enough that they can get away with not doing any work though, so they eat some fruit and get to it. They silence between them _is_ companionable this time — well, _silence_ might be a bit of an overstatement. Lambert’s still cursing out thin air every five fucking seconds.

“What?” That red creeping up his neck again. The warmth it lends his scent that Geralt can’t resist raking in. It feels like with each passing second he understands more and more why Eskel seems so enamoured.

They’d been working a few hours, not a word passed between them until now. “What ‘what’?”

“You’re fucking staring again.” Lambert grumbles, flushing brighter, his eyes fixedstubbornly forward.

Geralt’s lily white skin turns a pretty shade of rose petal pink, but that doesn’t stop the predatory glint in his eyes, or his smirk. A low growl rumbles from his chest as he stalks over to the smaller man, dropping his trowel to the snow. “Can’t help it. Not now I know how good that mouth of yours feels.”

“You’ve had it before,” Lambert points out crassly.

“Not like this.” Geralt takes him by the ribs and pins him against the wall, lifting enough that their eyes are level and Lambert’s feet struggle to find purchase. He goes rag doll limp as soon as Geralt’s lips are on his, softly prying them apart and licking inside his mouth.

It’s more tender than it was last night, to start. Then Lambert wraps his arms around Geralt’s neck, pulling him closer. Geralt braces himself against the wall, the hard lines of their bodies pressing against each other. He slides a knee between Lambert’s thighs, delighted to find him alright half hard, and by the way his hips immediately rock forward. He slips his hands under Lambert’s shirt, kneading at his waist just like Eskel did that day in the armoury. He presses open mouth kisses along Lambert’s neck, his breath hot, fluttery explosions against cold skin.

“I want you to come like this,” he says, pulling Lambert forward, grinding him on his thigh, “and I want you to call me that again.” His voice is gruff, and possessive, as are the hands on Lambert’s flanks, his fingers digging into soft flesh and hard muscle, but it’s not crude or controlling. Actually, Lambert can’t help be think that in this moment Geralt feels an awful lot like Eskel, but with one key difference; Geralt _wants_ to play, he’s _asking_ for it. 

“Fuck,” Lambert breathes, his hips stuttering forward. It’s rhythmless, and doesn’t provided nearly enough friction. He’s nervous. Can’t help it — it’s _Geralt_ for fuck’s sake. Geralt nipping at his ear, sliding his hand up to the back of his neck and squeezing lightly.

“Please,” he whispers. “For me.”

Lambert’s forehead drops to his shoulder. “Daddy,” he whispers, as if afraid to say it. Geralt’s hand returns to his waist, trailing down his back and under his shirt, pleasure rippling out along its path. He guides Lambert’s hips to a steady pace, pulling deep, pleading moans out from him. “Please daddy, please, more, more, daddy, daddy, please, please, please…” 

“Take what you need baby boy,” Geralt whispers, the words slipping out of him all too easily. “Come for daddy.” He kisses Lambert’s hair, damp with sweat, scent thick with the sweet spice of his arousal.

Lambert thrusts faster, presses down harder. Geralt slides his fingers through the hair at the back of his head. He tugs Lambert’s face away from his shoulder so that he can watch him sprinting to the edge, see the moment he dives with his eyes closed into crashing waves of ecstasy with a long, punched out groan.

“Look at me.” Geralt barely gives him time to catch his breath. Lambert’s eyes flicker open. He looks up at Geralt from under those long, dark lashes, his pupils blown wide, his lips kiss-red and glistening, parted, his breathless pants a whirling mist in the air between them. “What do you say?”

“Thank you daddy,” he rasps.

Geralt wraps his an arm around him, pulling him somehow closer and peppering his face with patternless kisses. Tears threaten to spill from Lambert’s eyes, and he makes to turn away but Geralt mouths at them, brushing them away with his lips. He doesn’t taste sadness, or fear init — just the sweetness of overwrought pleasure.

Lambert can’t very well keep working with come all over himself, so they retire early. The sun looks to be dipping behind the mountains anyway. It’s a subdue walk to the hot springs, and Geralt wonders if Lambert’s always this quiet after sex. He places his hand on Lambert’s upper back, almost pulls back when the younger man startles, but then he leans into the touch and Geralt slides his hand up to his shoulder. Lambert allows himself to be pulled closer.

By the time they’re in the water, the silence is so fraught with tension he thinks he might snap. When he gets the first, damp whiff of sadness, he can’t take it anymore. “You alright?” Lambert looks at him, eyes wide, as if surprised to find he has company. He nods, and continues scrubbing himself. “Lambert can you come here please?” he tries, after a moment’s deliberation. The wry smile he gets is little comfort, and completely offset by the way Lambert swims over without question. He arranges them like they were when he gave Lambert a massage, thinking it will be easier if they don’t have to look at each other. Lambert’s hair is already wet, so he works up a lather in his hands and starts washing his hair.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs it off, but Geralt has the sense that Lambert’s working himself up to say more, so he waits. Just like the before, he works first at loosening the wax from the inky black hair, but instead of asking him to dunk again, this time Geralt has a pitcher ready. Tilting Lambert’s head back, he shields his eyes as he pours water over his head, like he’s seen Eskel do so many times. “Why now?” Lambert asks when Geralt starts massaging his scalp with soapy hands. He’s so soft, so quiet, Geralt almost doesn’t hear him.

“Hm?” he hums, not quite understanding.

“Why now? Why’re you interested now? In me.”

His hands still. It’s a fair question, but the answer is…“Mm,” Geralt hums to buy himself some time, setting his hands to work again. “I saw you and Eskel. In the armoury.”

“You perverted fuck!” Water sloshes everywhere as Lambert rounds on him, rage and embarrassment burning through his scent, his face showing only the former. “What?” he snarls. “You saw him taking my arse and decided you had to have it too?”

“Something like that.” Lambert crooks an eyebrow, demanding either blood or an explanation. Geralt nudges his shoulder, turning him back around. “I just… saw a different side of you then. It was… interesting”

Lambert scoffs. “Oh? And what _side_ would that be then?”

“This side,” Geralt replies, sighs really, as he runs his nose up the back of Lambert’s neck. “Made me see the rest of you differently.”

Lambert wants to keep pushing, to keep prodding at Geralt until he spills something _more_ , he wants to ask him to explain, elaborate; _come on then pretty boy, how do you see my now?_ But he’s not ready for the answer, and Geralt’s making him feel so, so good. He lets him finish washing his hair, lets himself be pulled back to lean against Geralt’s chest. He relaxes in spite of himself, melts into the solid body holding him.

“So you gonna kill me now?” Geralt murmurs, raking his nose against the side of Lambert’s throat. “Should I get ours swords?”

“Nah,” Lambert says flippantly, tilting towards the touch. “You’d knock me on my arse. Do it when you’re asleep.”

“You wouldn’t. Too much honour for that. Besides, you could take me out in a fight, if you wanted to.”

“Saying you’d let me?”

“Saying you could beat me, stop selling yourself short.” He’s mouthing behind Lambert’s ear now, the smaller man’s eyes flickering closing at the warm puffs of air, eyes rolling to the heavens.

“My my, the things you say to get into someone’s trousers.”

“Works doesn’t it? You’re not wearing any.” Geralt takes Lambert’s eat between his teeth, nibbling almost playfully, before doing some truly filthy things with his tongue.

“Oh fucking hell that mouth of yours.” Lambert whips around and Geralt waists no time in yanking the smaller man onto his lap, cupping the back of his head and drawing him closer. Lambert bites down on his lower lip, hard, but then just _yields_ so deliciously, letting Geralt’s tongue slip past his lips to do as it pleases. Pretty boy turns them around, lays Lambert on the lip of the pool before crawling on top of him, mouthing up his body to his chest. He lick pert nipple, sinking his teeth into the surrounding flesh and sucking.

“Daddy,” Lambert whines.

“Baby,” Geralt coos back like it’s the most natural thing in the world, “baby, baby, baby boy.”

Lambert’s vision blurs suddenly, hot tears prickling at his eyes, threatening to spill over. His breathe hitches — it could have been mistaken for pleasure if it weren’t followed by an emphatic “Fuck.” He grinds his fists into his eyes, furiously trying to get himself under control.

“Lambert —?” So fucking concerned. Lambert shoves Geralt squarely in the chest, throwing him back into the water as he scrambles to get up. He’s still sitting when Geralt is right there again, gripping his shoulders and forcing him to stay down.“What the fuck are you doing?” Lambert kicks out but Geralt grabs his ankle, yanks it, catches Lambert’s head before it hits the floor. Sitting on his hips, Geralt shifts his hands so that they’re pressing down on Lambert’s shoulders again. Curled lips, bared teeth, and pupils narrowed to vicious slits — his every aspect embodying a wrathful wolf. But then Geralt sees his would-be-attacker sobbing on the floor, face turned helplessly to the side, eyes fixed on nothing, and anger gives way to alarm. “Lambert? Lambert what’s wrong?”

“Fuck off.” The words come out choked, and Lambert screws his eyes shut at the insult, presses the heels of his palms into them the second Geralt releases his arms.

He gathers the smaller man’s shaking form to his, one arm wrapped securely around his waist while his other hand hold’s Lambert’s head to his chest. He drops his voice low, to what he hopes is a soothing register. “Lambert please, please tell me what’s wrong.” Lambert doesn’t speak, hiding his face against Geralt’s shoulder as he continues crying, his whole body trembling. Geralt sniffs at Lambert’s hair, pulls his head back to mouth at his tears; there’s some sourness there, damp with sadness, but it’s mixed with spice, warmth, the burnt edges of anger — all so very concentrated. “Too much? Is that it?” he asks, drawing Lambert close again, petting him like he does a spooked Roach.

It takes a few moments, but he feels Lambert nod shakily against him. He opens his mouth to speak but only gasps when a new wave shame hits him. He pushes against Geralt, trying to get away away but is held frustratingly tighter.

“It’s okay Lambert, it’s okay. We can slow down.” They stay like that, Geralt rocking a little from side to side. He keeps his hold firm and even to suppress Lambert’s nervous system, cards his fingers through his hair because it’s what Eskel always does after the young Wolf throws one of his tantrums. Anger, childish and immature — that’s what it looked like. Geralt always said that Eskel was coddling a petulant sprog, not worth the time.

“You don’t have to be nice to me,” Lambert says, once his body has stilled and he’s found his voice. _His_ voice, the same rich timber, but it sounds so vulnerable.

“Mm, I think I better,” Geralt says lightly, still soft.“You weren’t the first person to threaten me with castration this week.”

“Fucking Eskel,” Lambert huffs, burning with abashment more than anything else.

“You enjoy it,” Geralt retorts.

“Yeah, well. He’s got a magnificent cock.”  
“Mm, and arse.”

“Bounced a coin off it once. Woke him up. Wasn’t too happy about it.”

The image draws a chuckle from the older man, but he doesn’t let go until he feels Lambert’s heart-rate return to normal, matching his own. A shiver runs up the smaller man’s spine at the loss of Geralt’s warmth. It occurs to them then that they’re still very wet and very naked.

“I uh —“

“Towels —

“Right towels —“

They scramble to dry off and get dressed. Neither or them speak, half from mutual embarrassment and half because they’ve run out of words. The awkwardness fades as they eat, and consume liberal amounts of mead. By the time they head upstairs they’re both warm from head to toe, and the scent of their arousal peppers the air. Even so, Lambert makes for his own room.

“Where’re you going?” Geralt asks, frowning in confusion.

“I just thought —“

“We don’t have to do anything. We didn’t last night.” He tries to assure him, but for some reason Lambert turns red. _You don’t have to be nice to me._ Geralt takes hold of his wrist, steps into his space. It’s intimate, but not imposing. His eyes are fixed on their hands. “I liked last night,” he tries, looking up from under his eyelashes. “It was nice, having you there.”

As Lambert’s blush burns brighter so does the spice in his scent. “I — yeah — al-alright then. Sure,” he stammers.

Geralt slides his hand to his back, guiding him to his bedroom. Unlike the night before, Lambert doesn’t keep his distance once they’re in bed. Instead, he tentatively rests his head on Geralt’s shoulder, his body a rigid line next his. Geralt turns on his side, rubs Lambert’s stomach over his shirt, noses at his hair and hums with pleasure, so low Lambert feels more than hears it. “Good night,” he says, lips moving against his scalp. He feels Lambert relax by degrees, until his head lolls a little towards him, mouth open. _Ridiculously endearing_.

.o.O.o.

Lambert isn’t there come morning. It’s not unexpected, really, all things considered, but that doesn’t stop a cold stone of disappointment from dropping in his gut. Likely, the youngest wolf just needs some time to himself. It’s not like Geralt can’t relate. So he takes his time waking. Stretching lazily, he rolls onto his feet, idly walks over to the high window with a tankard of water from last night. It’s snowing out, and by the looks of it, has been for hours. Whether or not Vesemir and Eskel make it back is entirely up to the strength of the sun now. They can only hope they weren’t already halfway up the mountain when the flurry started. One thing’s for sure — they’ll be no working on the wall today.

Lambert’s already in the kitchen making breakfast when he arrives. Really, it should be less surprising than the sudden happiness Geralt feels at seeing him.

“You’re here.”

“Where else would I be?” Lambert looks at him like he’s lost his head. Geralt doesn’t say anything about his recent disappearing act. “Snowed a lot last night,” he says, his back turned to Geralt.

“Mm.”

“Think they’ll make it back?”

“Don’t know,” he says honestly. Lambert’s shoulders slump. Clearly it wasn’t the answer he was looking for. “I hope so.” Geralt pads over to the younger man, touches his shoulder in a comforting gesture.

“Fuck are you doing?”

“I—”

“Porridge is done, help yourself.” He throws the spoon into the pot and storms out of the kitchen.

o.O.o

Space. He needs space. He’s worried about Eskel and Vesemir. Fuck, if he still rails against _Eskel_ , does his level best to push away the one person he lets himself rely on for a few months a year, then what can _Geralt_ expect?

It’s snowing too much to make hunting worth it so Lambert heads to the eastern tower. It’s more scaffolding than anything else, and not exactly _safe —_ even a Witcher would dash their brains on the courtyard falling from this height — but it’s peaceful. There’s something quieting about the climb; hand over hand, foot over foot, twisting between the beams just so, the careful shifting of his weight. By the time he settles on a sturdy beam near the top, a soft haze suffuses his mind. He could never stand the cold, but there’s no denying the beauty of winter in the mountains, the blanket of snow covering the world as far as he can see, the silence it brings. Still a right bastard though.

Even if it melts, the path will be too dangerous to climb, especially with whatever gear Vesemir _insisted_ they need. Not that it matters now. Geralt and Lambert will simply have to make do with what they already have, hunting as and when they can. They’ll just have to survive each other until spring.

As soon as the path’s clear, Lambert’s tearing down that mountain like greased lightening and fucking _murdering_ Eskel. The old man can watch while he waits his turn.

The sun’s high in the sky by the time he feels the chill seeping into his bones. He falls more than climbs down, deftly swinging from beam to beam, slipping through gaps with unnerving precision. It’s a dance of his own design, and only he knows all the steps. Anyone else trying to get down that way would without a doubt crack their skull open.

He goes into Eskel’s room and pulls on a thick, woollen shirt of his that layers comfortably over his flannel one, then, with nothing else to do he heads to the library. As a trainee he got into so much trouble the instructors grew tired of canning him, making him run the walls, and sicking him on kitchen duty. None if it worked — he only got more aggressive and ran away more often. Then someone had the genius idea of making him copy their most fragile books and fuck, he was _good_ at it. It immediately became their new form of torture.

It’s fucking boring really, but also nice in a way. There’s something meditative about it — following the loops and slants of words he didn’t have to think about, and there was a satisfaction in rendering the likeness of all things monstrous, animal and botanical _just so_ on paper. He’d be lying if he said he doesn’t get a thrill out of being better at something than everyone else. So yeah, maybe it’s not all bad. Never fails to put him to sleep at least.

When the Keep was at full capacity he kept his supplies carefully in a box, out of the way in either Rennes’ or Barmin’s offices. Now he leaves them on whatever table he was sat at last. His current project is a botanical guide, written in Elder. The illustrations are other-worldly, the binding strong and pristine, the pages unmarked by time and gilded in gold. His medallion hums lightly — it must have protective magic. It’s in perfect nick, not his usual commission at all, but Vesemir said he ran into an academic from Oxenfurt who was willing to pay handsome coin for a copy. The binding alone is going to be a bitch to mimic and the colours aren’t like anything he’s done before — he’s going to have to make new ones specially. Not worth the effort at all it his opinion. Of course, he had a change of heart when Vesemir threw a hefty purse at him. All crowns, and just the first half of his cut.

He falls into an easy rhythm, making rough sketches and copying out the words around them. Eventually his blinks get longer, heavier, and he pushes the pages away before falling asleep at the table, his head pillowed on folded arms.

.o.O.o.

Geralt isn’t looking for Lambert, per se, but he certainly doesn’t shy away from the thickening scent of spiced cider as he meanders through the hallways. The sun took its leave early, as it’s wont to do this time of the year, so it looks like the middle of the night but there are still hours before dinner, and Geralt is out of ways to fill the time. Even he could only go through sword forms alone, and fiddle with his gwent deck so many times before he gets bored.

Lambert’s asleep when he enters the library, hair unwaxed and sticking up at odd ends, lips slightly parted. Looking at him elicits a sort of heartache, though Geralt can’t fathom why, nor does he put too much thought into it. He knows enough, however, to know that if he leaves Lambert like this much longer, he’s going to drool all over whatever he’s working on, and Geralt will have to hear him bitch about that, and a stiff neck for days.

Padding over on silent feet, he carefully lifts Lambert up, carrying him with one arm braced below his neck and the other at his knees. Taking him to Geralt’s room seems a bit presumptuous, but there hasn’t been a fire in Lambert’s for at least a week, so there isn’t really another option. Still, he determines to leave Lambert alone once he’s safely deposited in bed, but then he tugs at Geralt’s wrist as he pulls away, and the older man has no choice but to lay down. Spooning up at his side, Geralt allows himself to rest a lazy hand on his stomach, absent-mindedly rubbing circles over his shirt until Lambert rolls onto his side. With his head pressed against Geralt’s chest, he shifts his hand to the smaller man’s back. Stroking long, languid strokes from his neck to the small of his back, Geralt lets himself drift off.

.o.O.o.

It’s pitch dark when Lambert wakes, except for a faint orange glow coming from behind him. Not registering imminent danger, his eyes take their time adjusting.

“Fuck’s going on,” he slurs at the blurry darkness. His mouth is too dry.

“You fell asleep in the library. Brought you here.”

His head snaps to attention, orientating himself around the familiar, gravelly voice. With something definitive to concentrate on, his vision focuses easily. Geralt’s sat on a worn armchair probably older than either of them, the leather supple. He holds a book in one hand, and sits with one ankle resting on the knee of his other leg.

“What the fuck for?”

“Didn’t want to hear you moaning about your neck or getting spit on whatever you’re working on.” In such low light, he can’t see the blush blooming on Lambert’s face, but he can smell its heat.

“Right.” Geralt turns back to his book, affording Lambert the opportunity to look his fill. He looks decent like this — nice even. Illuminated by a fire’s low, amber glow, wearing nothing but loose, black woollen trousers and a white flannel shirt with the laces undone. They might be stuck up here, alone together all winter. Lambert can have him anyway he wants, and no one would be any wiser.“So, still want my arse?”

“Yeah,” Geralt replies, glancing up.

“Have at it then.” Lambert nods him over.

“What, now?”

“S’good a time as any,” Lambert reasons. Geralt doesn’t look so convinced, so he slides off the bed and saunters over, leaning over the older man, fingers gripping buttery leather on either side, caging him in. He noses at Geralt’s temple, brushes his lips on the curve of his ear, the warm flutter of his breath sending ripples of anticipation across Geralt’s face and down his spine. “Please daddy?”

“Fuck.” Turning his head, he catches Lambert’s lips in a biting kiss, and then he’s grabbing the slimmer man’s hips, pulling the him onto his lap and standing up, all in one fluid motion. Lambert scarcely has time to wrap his legs around him before he’s dropped onto the bed, and Geralt’s crawling on top of him, pawing impatiently at his clothes. Lambert lifts his hips enough to discard his trousers and braes, while Geralt pulls off his shirt. He grabs Geralt’s head, crushing their mouths together, opening up easily when Geralt slides his tongue along the seam of his lips. Just like before he gives up control of the kiss entirely, stretching out on the bed, arms above his head as Geralt runs greedy hands up and down his sides, relishing in the feel of toned muscle in his grasp, licking into Lambert’s mouth with unparalleled hunger.

“Please daddy, more.” Lambert’s eyes are closed, already overwhelmed by the force of Geralt’s attention.

“Patience little Wolf,” Geralt growls. “Gonna be a good boy for me?” Lambert nods fervently. Geralt puts a heavy hand on his stomach, slides the other under his back and smoothly flips him onto his belly. The sharp spike of arousal in the air doesn’t go undetected. “Oh you like that do you?” He purrs.

“Yes,” Lambert whispers.

“Good,” Geralt growls in his ear, then kisses it, tracing the gentle arcs with his tongue. Geralt straddles his hips, reaches for the tin of slick on his bedside table.“This okay?” He pries it open, waving the soft balm under Lambert’s nose.

“I made that,” Lambert says with a small frown, recognising the mixture of camphor, cedar, eucalyptus, and lavender. Assembling a group of ingredients with such diverse origins would have cost a pretty penny if Vesemir weren’t so fastidious about maintaining the Keep’s green houses. “Is that the tingly one?”

“Hm. Eskel gave me some. Alright if we use it?”

“Made it for a reason didn’t I?”

“Don’t be cheeky.” Geralt pinches his bum, then leans over to kiss him again, soft and slow. He smears some slick between his fingers before sliding a finger down Lambert’s cleft starting from the small of his back, ending at his entrance. He rubs the slick around it, his finger delicately circling the tight ring of muscle. “Tell me how it feels,” he orders as he smooths over the hole, not pushing in yet, not even teasing — just, feeling.

“Burning. Cold,” Lambert says, wiggling a little at the sensation. It’s his slick, and he had a very specific experience in mind when he made it. “S’nice.”

Geralt takes more, softening it again before going back. This time he crooks his finger slightly, the point tugging lightly. “This is okay?”

“Yeah s’fine — you don’t have to go so slow.” _You don’t have to be nice to me._

 _“_ Hm,” Geralt hums unhappily, dropping a kiss between Lambert’s shoulder blades, continuing to work him open gradually. He lightly butts Lambert’s head with his own, urging the younger man to face him. He kisses the corner of his eye, then his eyelid, down his nose to his mouth, under his jaw, nuzzling near his pulse point, getting drunk on that heady scent like spiced cider. By the time he slides his finger in to the first knuckle, he feels a strange sort of haze, like his entire world has narrowed in on the man next to him, and his only goal is to wring out every pleasure soaked moan and whimper of which he’s capable.

“You alright there?”

“Never better,” Geralt replies with all the immediacy such irrefutable truths demand. He slides his finger in the rest of the way, eliciting a gasp from Lambert that sends delightful little sparks shooting through Geralt, straight to his cock. He kisses him with artless fervour,pullinghis finger out only far enough to add a second, sinking immediately to the second knuckle, hooking his fingers and stroking inside him, searching for that spot that he knows will set Lambert’s legs quivering and loosen his vocal cords. He finds it almost as soon as he slides all the way in.

“Fuck daddy, please.” Lambert chokes out, his eyes rolling, half closed.

“I want you to look at me baby.” He whispers, kissing his eyelids until they open again. Lambert looks at him through thick, black lashes, his pupils blown wide, ringed with just slivers of gold. He’s breathing, hot puffs of air through parted lips. They look dry so Geralt leans in to lick them until they’re wet and glistening again. He circles his fingers inside Lambert, working that spot nice and firm and maddeningly slow, relishing the wanton moans he can feel vibrating against his tongue.

“Please — daddy, more, more,” Lambert pleads, his breaths coming harder, faster, his body grinding down on Geralt’s fingers insistently.

Geralt wastes no time working a third finger in, scissoring and stretching to his satisfaction before pulling his hand out entirely and flipping Lambert over onto his back. Just like the first time, a surge of lust hits the air and Geralt breathes it in deep. Even if Eskel and Vesemir don’t make it back this winter, they’ll be able to smell this evening well into the next. He’ll make sure of it.

Geralt settles himself between Lambert’s legs, slicks up his cock with long, languid strokes. It’s a beautiful dick to be sure — fucking _pretty_ , just like the rest of him, but Lambert can’t help but be distracted by the way Geralt’s looking at him. The hunger he expects — that near feral gleam that promises to _take him_ — but it’s secondary to this open, _undeniable_ fondness. He turns his face to the side as Geralt drops forward, chasing his lips even as the blunt head of his cock presses against his hole.

“Look at me. Please Lambert.” His lips moving against the corner of Lambert’s mouth. None of this is right. When Lambert thought of their first fuck, he imagined exactly that — an honest to gods fucking. Scratching an itch. This is not that. This is _intimate_ , fucking _sensual_.Geralt nuzzling against him, Geralt gripping his flanks, lightly, tenderly massaging. He looks at him anyway, and he sees the open mouthed wonder painted on Geralt’s face as he pushes in with a slow roll of his hips. He isn’t as big as Eskel, and Lambert is nice and relaxed, but it still burns as he sinks into his body inch by inch.

Geralt’s hips crawl towards his, whipping up tongues of fire that knot inside his belly. Lambert tries to take control, to make it _right_ by thrusting upward sharply in an attempt to fuck himself hard, but Geralt pins him to the bed with firm hand. “None of that now little wolf. I want to watch you fall apart nice and slow. Can you do that for me?” This isn’t how it’s supposed to be but, fuck — that _look_. “Answer me,” Geralt growls, tightening a hand just a little in warning.

“Yes,” Lambert gasps out, nodding his head furiously.

“Yes who?”

Lambert almost sobs, pulling the words from his chest. “Yes daddy,” he says, and immediately feels lighter. He’s said it — said _that —_ before but it’s different this time. He’s not throwing it out, tentative and preemptively humiliated, and Geralt isn’t asking because he’s curious — he’s _demanding,_ like he _wants_ Lambert to be his boy.“Yes daddy, please, please —”

“Please what? What do you need baby?”

“Need — fuck — just fucking move already.”

With a smile half wicked , and half abashed (because he _had_ forgotten he was meant to be moving) he wraps his hands around Lambert’s knees and slings them around his waist. Lambert hooks one ankle on the other, clasping at the small of Geralt’s back, pushing him closer, deeper, drawing out a gut-deep moan from the larger man. Geralt’s hips jerk forward, and he braces his forearms on the mattress either side of Lambert’s head to keep their heads from colliding. Lambert snorts out a laugh and Geralt tugs harshly at his hair. “Got something to say little boy?”

“Mm, yeah,” smug, even as his eyes roll back and he bites his bottom lip to keep from whining. “Fuck me.”

Deciding on a compromise all on his own, Geralt cradles the back of Lambert’s head in one hand, his neck in the other, simultaneously scratching his scalp, and stroking his throat with a thumb; a constant reminder of his hold. He leans in, presses his lips to Lambert’s, and fucks filthily into his mouth even as his body ripples and undulates like a languorous tide. His cock pulses in the hot clutch of Lambert’s body, sliding against his sweet spot again and again n torturously long strokes. “So fucking tight,” breathes out, the words strangled.

“Everything you dreamed it’d be?” Lambert asks, almost managing to sound snide.

“Better. So much better. Feels amazing. You’re so fucking amazing.”

There’s nothing Lambert can say to that, so instead he wraps his arms around Geralt’s neck and kisses him, pouring all the desire he’s harboured for this man for over a decade into him. For all his fervour, it’s still a cautious, tentative thing.Some part of Geralt must get the message though; his thrusts becoming just that much faster, that much harder — but still fucking _elegant._ Lambert whimpers, a small, desperate sound that stokes the fire burning through them both to a wild thing. Still — _still_ Geralt remains a paragon of control, like the more Lambert falls apart the more he comes together.

“I want you to come on my cock, can you do that for me baby?” he croons.

Lambert whimpers again at the endearment, nodding vigorously. “Yes, yes daddy please —” _please please please please please,_ is his frantic litany as he resigns himself fully to Geralt’s sovereignty over his body, letting him take and take and take because there is nothing Lambert won’t give to be his. “Please, please, please,” he pants, almost sobs as he feels the tell-tale prickle of _too much_ in his eyes.

“Ssh, ssh, I’m here baby,” Geralt says, even though it doesn’t really make sense. “I’m here,” he says, his voice soft as he kisses Lambert, his hairline, his temple, “daddy’s right here baby.” 

The well of molten pleasure overflows from his core, and Lambert keens with abandon, his back arching off the bed as heat shoots up his spine and floods every nerve in his body, spills out onto the dark thatch of hair on his abdomen. Geralt loses himself just a little as he chases him over the precipice, hips snapping gracelessly before burying in deep as Lambert flutters around his throbbing cock. Geralt can’t be sure for the roaring in his ears, but he thinks he might hear a small, satisfied sigh escape from the man in below as he pours everything he has into him.

 _Please please please please please_ — the orison continues, and Geralt smooths a large hand up and down Lambert’s torso, grounding him as much as tethering himself. _Ssh ssh ssh, breathe baby, breath_ he hears himself say, over and over again until Lambert’s breathing evens out, then slows in sleep. 

Geralt waits until his cock is fully soft before easily slipping out. If he were with Eskel he wouldn’t think twice about passing the fuck out, leaving mama bear to do all the work of getting them cleaned up, but he’s with Lambert now, and Lambert needs him. Not bothering to get dressed, he makes his way to the kitchen, filling up a basin from the large tub of fresh water. Realising that neither of them have eaten anything since breakfast, he throws together a platter of breads, fruits, and cheese. Back upstairs, he makes quick work of wiping Lambertdown, careful not disturb his slumber, before tucking him under the sheets. He does the same to himself, and dives into bed, wrapping his limbs around the other man. Nose buried in his hair, drowning in the smell their sex, Geralt finally collapses into sweet, sweet oblivion.

.o.O.o.

Eskel returns late the following day, bursting through the front doors with a flurry of snow and tackling an unsuspecting Lambert, who’s passing through the front hall. He and Geralt hadn’t been on the look out for the other two. With the snows so heavy the most they expected was a cursory note saying that they were alive but wouldn’t be coming back.

“How’d the fuck did you get up?” His words are muffled by Eskel’s shoulder, crushed as he is against the bear-wolf’s body, by arms he’d resigned himself to not feeling again until at least spring.

“Pass was clear,” Eskel replies curtly between near violent kisses to the crown of Lambert’s head.

“The pass was _not_ clear.” Vesemir enters, bringing more of the growing storm outside, dumping the spoils of their trip onto the floor. Apparently Eskel had left him to carry everything. “He just took it upon himself to melt the snow with igni like a mad man.”

“There wasn’t that much snow,” Eskel retorts, Lambert thinks almost sharply. Harsher than he’s even been toward their old instructor at any rate.

Vesemir scoffs, still stomping his boots at the threshold, but doesn’t argue once he sees the death grip Eskel has on their youngest Wolf.

“Reckless. Old man’s gonna think I’m a bad influence.”

“I wasn’t going to miss a whole winter of you just so he could get his dick wet.” Lambert freezes, a sort of guilt at being the cause of both Eskel’s carelessness, and his vexation with the man he usually held such high respect for. “C’mon,” Eskel continues, his hold loosening only slightly. “Got you a present. Want to give it to you up stairs.”

Ah. This Lambert know’s how to handle. “So you’re cock’s a present now?” he asks snidely, grazing his thigh on the cock on question, which is, in fact, half hard.

“I bought you something.” Eskel picks his pack up from the pile, and turns Lambert towards the stairs without ever fully letting go. “It’s for me just as much as it is for you,” he says, feeling the younger man tense. He can barely take a compliment, let alone a whole fucking _gift,_ especially not one paid for with hard earned coin.

Eskel dumps his bag in his room, grabs a towel and some clothes before turning to leave again.

“What happened to my present?”

“Bath first,” he says, steering Lambert towards the springs with a hand at the base of his neck.

“So what the fuck are you dragging me around for?”

“The bath’s part of the present.”

“Is this a weird sex thing?”

“Define ‘weird’.”

“So it is a sex thing then?”

“Define ‘sex’.”

“Fucking hell—”

“Please Lambert,” he says with a light squeeze. “Missed you.”

“Fine.” Lambert lets himself be herded to the baths, stripped, and put in the water. As requested, he waits patiently while Eskel scrubs himself clean.

“You smell like him,” he says, his voice low, the words vibrating across Lambert’s skin. Pressed against his back, his arms wrapped around the smaller man’s waist, he runs his nose along his shoulder, up his neck, nuzzling behind his ear.

“You mind?” There’s a timorous tremor in his voice, so slight Eskel’s the only person on the continent who could hear it.

“’Course not. My two favourite people finally getting along. S’great. But I just want you now.” There’s nothing for Lambert to say to that, so he’s quiet as Eskel scrubs a soapy washcloth all over his back, then his front, his arms, his legs. “He’s good to you?” He asks, an echo of restrained anxiety in his voice.

“Yeah.”

“And you didn’t —?”

“No,” Lambert answers before he can finish, before it’s technically a lie. Eskel’s relief is palpable; Lambert hopes more palpable than his guilt.

“May I?” He asks, gesturing to his soft cock. Lambert hooks a quizzical eyebrow but acquiesces. Eskel smiles, a proper, eye-crinkling, tooth-showing smile. He doesn’t let himself do that nearly enough, which is a damn shame because Lambert thinks it’s fucking beautiful. He does everything he can to make those smiles happen. Not that it’s hard for him, to be honest. All hehas to do is grumble _fine_ and let Eskel touch him.

A large, warm hand wraps around his cock, cleaning it with slow, firm strokes, a finger presses into the tip, delicately slides back his foreskin. He’s careful not to stimulate — that’s not what this is about — but it’s still all so tender. A satisfied sigh escapes him and Lambert almost smiles. “If you want me to fuck you all you had to do was ask.”

“Hm.” _Just wait, you’ll see._

Lambert’s quiet as Eskel pulls him out of the pool, doesn’t say a word as he’s towelled down and dressed in loosely tied trousers. Eskel’s acting like he does at the beginning of every winter, protective, possessive, needy, even though he’d only been gone a few days. Lambert can’t say he minds, that he doesn’t relish in the familiarity of this man and his motions after such strange drama. His silence as they go back upstairs is a somber one, but he can practically feel Eskel simmering with excitement. Infectious, it stirs his curiosity.

As soon as the door closes behind them Eskel’s hands are grabbing his waist, turning him around to kiss him so deeply he arches backwards. “What is it?” he asks, words barely intelligible.

Eskel breaks away to rummage in his pack, pulls something out and holds it out to him. It’s an octagonal box, lacquered a rich, satin black, almost as wide as both Lambert’s hands side-by-side. It doesn’t open. On the lid are rotating discs, fragments of which are inlaid with mother-of-pearl in no discernible pattern.

It’s expensive, is what it is. Lambert can’t accept it. Won’t. “No,”he says, holding it in gaze with mixed apprehension and desire, already shifting pieces in his mind’s eye.

Of course, Eskel knows exactly what his hang up is. “I told you, it’s for me just as much as it is for you.”

“How’s that then?”

“The carpenter said it’d take even you days to work it out, if not weeks.”

“So what, this your way of shutting me up?”

“It’s my way of keeping you still.” Lambert’s eyes finally lift to meet his and suddenly he’s embarrassed, not quite sure how to express his wants. With the younger man scrutinising him his eyes flit to the floor, the ceiling, as if he expects the right words to jump out at him from some corner.

“Is this about you sucking my cock?” Leave it to Lambert to get it out in the simplest way possible. Of course, for all Eskel’s familiarity with him, he quite forgot that Lambert was just as adept at reading him.

“Something like that.” Eskel mumbles. He holds off making eye contact for as long as possible, until he sees this stupid smirk spread across Lambert’s face. “What?” he snaps, irritably, or as irritable as he can manage.

“You’re blushing,” Lambert’s smile — _smirk_ — grows wider. “You’re always trying to make me blush and now _you’re blushing._ ” Eskel had in fact gone somewhat red in the face, the heated smell of his abashment wafting over the Lambert, who inhales with an obnoxiously loud sniff. “Aah, I get it now. Heady shit that.”

Eskel squawks in protestation, but doesn’t manage any actual words before Lambert plucks the puzzle from his had, drops trow and climbs into bed. With him lost in a trance-like focus, Eskel climbs in after him, doing all the work of arranging things\s so that he’s comfortable and Lambert won’t get cold. “Sure you don’t mind?” he asks softly, forehead resting on Lambert’s temple. He gets an absent minded head-shake in response, and presses a thankful kiss to his cheek in turn. Settling down between Lambert’s thighs, he considers his prize with a spark of avid hunger dancing in his eyes. It’s an almost delicate pink, not as long as his, or as thick, and soft it’s perfectly sized for his mouth. Now that the moment’s imminent he want’s to savour it as much as possible. He runs his nose up and down it’s length, inhaling the thick, musky scent of pure _Lambert_ in needful gulps. He kisses the head a few times, mouths along the shaft with kitten licks, teasing himself with the taste.

“Keep doing that and I’m gonna get hard.”

Eskel obligingly stops toying with his prey, and rests his head on Lambert’s thigh taking in as much as he can in that position and covering the rest with his hand. Tired from his journey, he drifts off easily, floating on a wave of contentment. As he falls asleep, he feels Lambert’s take a break from his puzzling to run a hand through his hair.

.o.O.o.

It’s not a surprise that Lambert and Eskel became once again attached at the hip as soon as the latter got back. Still a bit much, in Geralt’s humble opinion — they’d only been separated a few days, not a whole fucking season. Maybe it’ll only go on a day or two, and then things will go back to — but he didn’t want normal did he? Normal was him and Lambert wordlessly trading off Eskel, barely acknowledging each other outside of training and gwent, occasionally trading insults just because. He doesn’t want _normal_ , he doesn’t want before, he wants — fuck. He wants Lambert. He wants Lambert next to him in bed, his soft skin and firm muscles, the thrumming of his heart, the warm blood pulsing through his veins, the sweet-spicy smell of a post-sex haze. He won’t go so far as to say he misses him, but he wants him, and he can feel it in like a cold rock sitting in his stomach.

“So you and Lambert huh?” Eskel asks, like he hasn’t noticed the man in question has spent every night in _his_ bed since he got back. They’re standing on a balcony in one of the more stable remaining towers. With the snows coming in fast and heavy now, it’s all they really get in the way of fresh air. Rationalising that he’s technically staying indoors, Geralt hadn’t thought to put on a coat, and barbed winds whip at his skin.

“Hm.” It’s more of a grunt than a hum, moody enough to make Eskel take pause. Mama bear senses that now isn’t the time to push, so he claps Geralt on the shoulder and leaves him to stew.

That evening when he walks into the kitchen for dinner, they’re already sitting down; Eskel’s pressed up against Lambert, Lambert looking down with an unreadable expression. Eskel’s leaning in close, elbows on the table, clasped hands waving a little as he speaks, low enough that Geralt can’t make out the words. He stops mid-sentence as soon as he catches sight of him. Lambert lifts his hands up from where they laid folded on his lap, rests his wrists on the table awkwardly before tucking them back out of sight again. He perks up as soon as food’s on the table, eyes alight as he ribs the old man about all the bread and sweet buns he’s been making, poking and prodding at Eskel just to be annoying. He catches Geralt’s eye for the first time since they fucked, his every aspect gleaming with something like mischief.

Geralt retires early that night, not in the mood to watch the other two fawning all over each other. Laid in bed, wallowing, without even moonlight to keep him company, he’s too busy someone approaching his room until Lambert slips in on silent feet, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. The thrill that shoots through Geralt is dampened quickly by wave of spite. Lambert saunters over, wearing a wicked smirk that Geralt want to wipe off, stopping when his knees hit the foot of the bed. “What do you want Lambert?” He was aiming for disinterest but it comes out as a snarl.

The younger man flinches, just for moment, before he affects a look of exaggerated dolefulness. “Just you.” Geralt responds with a harsh, scoffing laugh, and returns his attention to the ceiling. “What?” Lambert says, in a small, quiet, voice. “Daddy doesn’t want to play with me anymore?” There’s nothing affected or exaggerated about the fear-scent that creeps into Geralt’s nose, or the way Lambert’s eyes are widened with worry, his weight shifted back as if ready to run.

Guilt surges through Geralt, pushing him forward. He takes Lambert by the hips, pulls him up onto the bed, and settles him on his lap. “Of course I do baby, I just thought—” he heaves a sigh. Since when were they _sharing?_ “Thought you didn’t want me now that Eskel’s back.” A… pained looked flashes across Lambert’s face, quickly erased. _He doesn’t like it—_ _this_ , Geralt remembers him saying. Eskel doesn’t like playing this way. But _Lambert_ does, and as unexpected as it was, Geralt does too. He takes the hint well enough not to bring up the other man again, instead drawing the one in his lap in for a kiss.

Like he has been whenever they’ve played this way, Geralt’s struck but how pliant Lambert becomes, how easily he cedes to the fingers lightly guiding him by the chin, how willingly he opens up, permitting Geralt’s tongue into his mouth, not even a show at taking control.And it strikes him them, how much trust Lambert’s putting into him, into a man who had, until a mere weeks ago, shown him only disdain. _Sorry_ , he tries to say as he deepens the kiss; _I’m sorry, I didn’t know._

His hand drifts down Lambert’s back, under the hem of his braes, his fingers slidingdown searchingly. “You’re already wet,” he says, confused.

Lambert turns his face away, eyes down. “I — Eskel — he already had me,”he explains, the mumbled words faltering towards the end, his face a bright scarlet. Geralt brings his fingers to his nose and inhales the mixed scent of slick, Lambert, and _Eskel_ , and breathes in his brother’s message: _he’s still mine, remember what I said._ “He wanted me to be ready for you.” Lambert says, a sort of eagerness burning in his eyes, as if pleading with Geralt to… understand? Accept?

“And do you want me too little boy?” Geralt teases, coyly grinning up and Lambert from under pale lashes. “Do you want daddy to take care of you now?”

“Fuck, yes,” Lambert says breathlessly, diving in for another kiss. Geralt slides down on the bed, all but ripping Lambert’s braes off and shucking his own. He rolls them over and straddles Lambert’s hips, smirks as he pulls off his shirt, and kicks off his underwear the rest of the way. Heat rolls off of Lambert’s body, hurtling into the torrent of Geralt’s desire and creating a perfect storm between them. A thick, cloying musk clouds around them — from them — so dense it’s like they’re moving through water. Another wave surges from Lambert when Geralt deftly flips him onto his stomach, eliciting a small, breathless laugh from the older man.

He drops a kiss onto Lambert’s shoulder before murmuring into his ear, “Can I take you like this?” His hand sliding along the curve of the younger man’s arse. Lambert nods wordlessly, desperately. His body easily accepts two of Geralt’s fingers, then a third. “So open,” Geralt purrs, lining himself up. “Can you still keep daddy in you?” It’s a rhetorical question, teasing, but he gets his answer in spades when he thrusts in with a smooth roll of his hips, and feels the hungry clutch of Lambert’s body around him. Time slips from their grasp even as their hold on each other tightens; Geralt lacing his fingers with Lambert’s where he pins him to bed, Lambert clenching down on him, wrenching out his release while desperately grinding himself down on the bed.

Only vaguely aware of stumbling from the bed, still panting, to fetch a wet washcloth, Geralt gives them both a cursory wipe before collapsing onto the bed. There’s inches of sweat-dampened sheets between him and Lambert, and that just doesn’t seem right. He reaches out a hand, tentative in spite of everything that has just happened between them. One touch, light below his neck, is all it takes for Lambert to attach himself to Geralt’s side. They’re both stillsticky with sweat, and running too hot, the air around them so thick with after-sex it’s almost sultry. Geralt wouldn’t change a thing.

.o.O.o.

The horizon is the deep, fuzzy indigo of pre-dawn when he stirs from his slumber, the last of the night stars winking to sleep. Placing some wood in the hearth, Geralt stokes the low-burning fire; watches it flare back to life, listens to the pleasant crackling as it joins the soft melody of Lambert’s breaths, his heartbeat. Turning back to look at him, sex mussed and painfully soft, Geralt couldn’t stop the unbearable swell of affection in his chest if he wanted to and, to be honest, he doesn’t want to. Instead he returns to the bed, laying on his side behind Lambert, propped up on an elbow. He runs his hand over the younger man’s shoulder-blades, the solid muscles relaxed in sleep. It’s a gentle thing, Geralt didn’t want to wake him, but he turns anyway, eyes less than half-open. He lays his head back down, arms still under the pillow, peering at Geralt with sleepy suspicion.

“What?” He asks, his hoarse voice almost a whisper.

“Nothing,” Geralt replies, running the tips of fingers through the hair behind Lambert’s ear. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Sorry.”

Lambert squeezes his eyes shut with a _mmrph_ that’s a lot dearer than it has any right to be, much like the man it comes from. He shoves his face back into the pillow, rubbing against it like a cat trying to get comfortable, before giving up and looking at Geralt again, more alert.“S’ruined now. Can’t get back to sleep.”

“Sorry,” Geralt says again, smiling in a way that strongly suggests otherwise. He half sits-up against the pillows, and pulls Lambert on top of him, so that the younger man is straddling his hips, back resting on Geralt’s knees and thighs. Lambert lets out a surprised yelp, and a bashful smile crosses his face, his eyes fixed on the pillow near Geralt’s shoulder. The well of affection grows, overflows, smothering all his senses with a fuzzy sort of haze. Without a word, Geralt brings a tankard of water up to the his mouth, tilting it up for him to drink.

“Thanks,” Lambert mumbles, his lips against that of the tankard, as he wraps his own hand around it. Geralt lets go while he drinks, but takes it back when he’s done, returning it to the bedside table. He settles back against the pillows, hands holding Lambert’s hips, regarding him intently.

“So how does this work exactly?” The question falls out of him, guileless and thoughtless all at once. “You want me to be your daddy? You my baby boy now?”

Lambert glances at him, only briefly, then shrugs. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Geralt staring at him, waiting. “Yeah,” he says, as though he wants it to be the right answer, “if you — if you want me… to.” He flushes that beautiful, burning pink from his chest to the tips of his ears again.

“Would this be mine?” Geralt asks, pinching the bridge his nose and giving it a little shake.

“Yeah.” Lambert looks at him sideways, still unsure.

“And this?” Geralt asks again, tweaking his ear.

“Yes,” he stretches the word this time, gives Geralt a quizzical look as the beginnings of asmile sprout on his face.

“How about this, would this be mine?” Geralt draws Lambert’s head down, brushing their lips together. “And this?” The words are quieter as he strokes Lambert’s cock with his knuckles.

“Yes,” Lambert whispers.

“This?” He slides his hand to the swell of Lambert’s ass, pinching lightly.

“Yes.”

“And this? Does this belong to daddy too?” He slides a finger between Lambert’s cheeks, smoothing the pad over his hole.

“Yes.” Lambert squirms his face going bright red.

“Hmm.” There’s a cheeky glint in Geralt’s eyes as he slides out from under Lambert and swiftly moves to kneel behind him. Calloused hands rest on the swell of Lambert’s arse, gently massaging before pulling his cheeks apart.

“What are you doing?” Lambert asks, his voice almost shrill with nerves as he tried to buck away.

“I want to see what’s mine baby boy,” Geralt answers, “now quiet.” He takes his time looking, admiring the relaxed, red ring of muscle, the slick shine of oil and his seed still slowly dripping out of him from earlier. The sight is disarming enough that what was a slow retreating fog fully washes over him again, suffusing every crevice of his body and mind. “It’s perfect Lambert,” he husks. “Exactly how a little boy should look for his daddy.” He rubs his nose on the soft skin of Lambert’s crease, eyes fluttering closed as he draws their combined scent into his lungs. “So perfect,” he says, lapping at the fluid on his perineum. “You’re so perfect,” he amends, laying a soft kiss on Lambert’s furl. _So perfect, so beautiful, so good for me Lambert, you’re always so good for me, you’re so precious, so wonderful…_ The litany of whispered praises spills out of him between tender licks and kisses before he can fully grasp what he’s saying, dissolving only when his mouth becomes too occupied to speak.

Still open from earlier, Lambert’s body melts under Geralt’s tongue, allowing it to dip inside smoothly, artfully eliciting all those needy little whimpers Geralt loves so much. Fuck — _love_ — when did he start associating ‘love’ with ‘Lambert’?

Pushing that aside, focused on his task, sliding a deft finger in alongside his tongue, working Lambert’s prostate until he can feel his body shaking with the effort of holding itself up, and his breath is coming out in ragged pants. Geralt seamlessly pulls out then, flips Lambert onto his back, presses two fingers back in and goes straight for that spot, the smaller man’s dissatisfied moans instantly becoming wanton. _I love you_ , he wants to say, but has enough presence of mind to know that he’s not thinking clearly. Instead he swallows Lambert’s flushed and waiting cock to the root without warning, and smiles at the choked off gasp it pulls from him. All things considered, he manages a rather impressively wolfish smirk.

He only has to bob his head a handful of times before Lambert spills down his throat, unable to keep himself from thrusting upward as the shock of pleasure crashes through him. Geralt grabs his hips before he can shy away, keeping him there, making a point of swallowing around his oversensitive cock and inhaling deeply the thick, spicy musk of his release. He pulls off with a filthy _slurp_ and trails wet kisses up Lambert’s heated, winter soft body to his face.

“Hey,” he rasps out. One look at Lambert is enough to tell him that the other man is not in a fit state to talk; his pupils are blown wide, he’s covered in sweat, and he’s panting through dry and parted lips. Geralt moves to start getting them cleaned up but Lambert’s hand shoots to his shoulder, pushing him back down. He complies, nosing at the dark scruff of Lambert’s chest hair, tasting salt and feeling the drumming of his heart against his lips. He lays down and listens, waits for the beat to become witcher-slow, for his breathing to even out, and for the hand on his shoulder to loosen its grip.

“You okay Lamb?”

“Yeah—“ he starts, but it comes out strangled so he stops to clear his throat. “Yeah that was — you were — fuck.”

Geralt chuckles, rubs his nose against Lambert’s chest again. “Gonna get us cleaned up now little lamb.” He pushes off from the bed, and returns shortly after with a clean washcloth, and basin of water that had been keeping warm by the hearth. Lambert sits propped up on his elbows, wearing a curious frown. “What?”

“You called me ‘little lamb.’”

“Oh. Should I — is that not okay?”

“S’all the same to me really,” Lambert answers after some consideration, then after more adds, “Eskel might though.”

“He’s very protective,” Geralt notes as he paws at Lambert’s face in an effort to wipe the sweat off.

“Yeah.” he shifts uncomfortably, eyes dropping to his chest.

Geralt pauses his ablutions to tilt Lambert’s head up with a crooked finger, forcing the younger man to meet his eyes. “It’s good that he’s protective.” Geralt says. _I want to protect you too._

.o.O.o.

They go on like this for weeks; Eskel and Geralt passing Lambert between them without ever talking about it, without any indication that anything has changed at all. Except every morning after Lambert spends the night with Geralt, Eskel touches him a little more, all over,pulls him onto his lap even when Vesemir’s around, even when Lambert’s still eating; he scents Lambert constantly, runs his nose up the length of his neck, nuzzles into his hair — searching for even the faintest intimation of distress. Maybe there’s once or twice he does it while looking straight into Geralt’s eyes.

He doesn’t find anything apart from a few bruises here and there; remnants of biting kisses and being held too tight, just the way Lambert likes, and the young Wolf has never smelt happier. So maybe Eskel starts leaving a few more marks of his own, gripping tighter and biting harder whenever they make love, or just happen to be alone. _Mine_ he declares with every broken blood vessel; _mine, mine, mine, mine, mine— don’t you dare hurt him._

.o.O.o.

Lambert knows he can’t keep this up forever. Every time he moans _daddy_ he insists it’s the last, and he keeps insisting as the word falls ceaselessly from his lips in the haze of ecstasy that pervades his dalliances with Geralt. 

Eskel wants to have them both together, he knows that, just like he knows that the second Geralt’s hands are on him he’ll slip up. Sure, he has time to cut the crap and get himself under control; Eskel has never pushed him, and isn’t pushing him now. All he has to do is say he’s not ready, all he has to do is say _maybe next winter._ Maybe, he thinks as he crawls into Geralt’s bed, already muttering that _fucking word_ without pause or assent — maybe they can forget this ever happened, maybe Eskel never needs to know.

.o.O.o.

They look almost the same by daylight; there’s nothing different about the way they take their meals or do their chores, or the way they talk shit and get pissed. Perhaps Eskel acts a little more possessive over the youngest Wolf than usual, or perhaps it’s just that Geralt finds himself senselessly, indefensibly envious.

He watches his brother bury his nose into Lambert’s hair at the breakfast table and aches to do the same. He sees Lambert settle himself on Eskel’s lap in the springs and wishes to whatever gods there are that it were him instead, and he envisions himself laying soft kisses up the line of the younger man’s neck, resting their foreheads together and smiling — just at the sight of the other’s eyes. He doesn’t begrudge him his closeness to Lambert — of course not, there’s too much love between himself and Eskel for that — but some days it feels like he might. 

It’s a curious thing, but no curiouser than the wicked satisfaction he feels every time Lambert crawls into his bed, mewling _daddy,_ knowing that he’s giving him something that Eskel won’t, knowing that Eskel’s little lamb is his baby boy. He feels it the second he hears his door open, the whisper of air before it clicks shut, the near imperceptible light-footed padding to his bed. It only grows when feels the mattress dip, Lambert’s weight shifting upward, over his body. He smiles, even if he’s still barely conscious. How could he not when sweet kisses are being pressed onto his collarbone, on the underside of his jaw; when he can feel “Wake up daddy, I want you,” being breathed into his skin?

“Naughty boy, waking daddy up like that,” he says, voice like gravel, relishing the flood of heat that surges through the body in his hands. Through half-lidded eyes he sees Lambert open and close his mouth like a fish, sheepish to the point of speechlessness. “Don’t worry baby, daddy’s gonna give you what you want.” There’s another hit of blushing lust when Geralt rolls them over, once more when he flips Lambert onto his stomach. It’s an intoxicating thing — no doubt exacerbated by the mead and moonshine he’d had earlier — and he wants more. “Such a greedy little boy I have, so desperate for daddy’s cock.” It’s late, and he’s foggy with sleep, so a good, lazy fuck seems in order. He ruck’s up Lambert’s shirt and pulls down his braes only enough to expose his arse. “So needy,” he croons. “don’t worry baby, daddy’s gonna take good care of you.”

Only half awake and more than a little drunk, he doesn’t notice if he’s sloppier than usual, or that Lambert’s body goes rigid under him and that he doesn’t make a sound. He doesn’t notice that all the warmth in his scent has been replaced by something damp, and colder than any winter, and of course, he can’t hear the voice slithering through time, echoing in Lambert’s head while Geralt pants hot, wanton breathes in his ear — _so greedy for daddy’s cock, practically begging for it, teasing daddy all day like a little whore, you daddy’s little whore, huh? how did I end up with bitch in heat for a son, don’t worry slut, daddy’s gonna take care of you, get you nice and full …_

But it’s not Geralt’s fault — he doesn’t know — so Lambert stays nice and still and quiet until Geralt comes inside him with a gratified moan. Sweating and breathless, coming down from the fevered heights of passion, he rests his forehead on Lambert’s back. _Clammy_ , he realises as he slowly falls back to himself — _cold sweat_. “Lambert?” he calls as he puts a hand on the man’s shoulder — _taut, hard as stone_. Lambert’s whole body cringes at the touch and the sound of his voice, breathing faster, harder, shallower. Worry and confusion creeping through his post-fuck haze, Geralt pulls out carefully — and Lambert shuffles right to the corner of the bed, curling in on himself with his arms wrapped around his knees. There’s a sickly, oily feeling in Geralt’s stomach as he watches the rise and fall of the smaller man’s shoulders become more measured; already schooling himself into some twisted mask of composure — like he’s used to this, like he’s had practice. Not knowing what else to do, Geralt reaches out to him again, only to have Lambert flinch with his whole body, as if the hand brushing his leg was a horsewhip slashing his face. 

“Please daddy,” Lambert says in a small, pleading voice, watery eyes cast down and far away, “I’m tired.” Geralt can only watch as tears start to fall down his face, wordless, useless to the rising, acerbic stench of fear and misery swirling around them, burning his lungs. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, roughly palming the tears away, “I won’t — I won’t tell.” And just like that he’s gone. 

And Geralt’s struggling, fumbling with the pieces as he tries to make sense of them; because this isn’t like the last time Lambert ran away, this isn’t some blushing schoolboy anxious in front of his first crush, this is — something’s _wrong_ and Geralt — _Geralt did something wrong_ and now he can’t do a _fucking thing_ to fix it. Breathing in Lambert’s fear, his misery, his complete and utter fucking _wretchedness_ , he can’t keep the taste of bile from his mouth, already haunted by the image of him — of Lambert small and scared and crying — and alone. He shouldn’t — he shouldn’t be alone, so Geralt rushes to find the one person who _can_ do something to help, the only person, really, who’s ever had any business being close to the young Wolf.

“Lambert,” he sputters as he throws Eskel’s door open, breathless from his mad dash through the keep’s winding halls. “Lambert I — I’m sorry he needs you, I can’t — I —” 

“What the fuck did you do?” Eskel snaps — growls, all the blood draining from face even as cold fury burns through him; but the answer doesn’t matter, not right now. He’s out the door like an arrow, already tracking the scent he’s been scared of finding for weeks. He catches it easy enough — whether it’s because he’s trying or because it’s fucking _everywhere_ he can’t say, but it’s there, growing stronger as it leads him through the castle, up an abandoned tower, to some dark corner at the end of a long room that no one uses anymore. He slows to a cautious tread when he enters one of the old dormitories, stepping over Lambert’s clothes strewn across the floor. “Hey,” he says softly, careful not to startle the naked, trembling figure on the floor, not missing how he cringes anyway. He squats down at a yard's distance, wary of crowding the spooked animal before him. 

Lambert looks up from where his face was hidden behind his knees, lost eyes darting around the room. “Eskel?” he asks weekly, failing to keep the tremor out of his voice. He locks eyes with the other man, as if noticing him for the first time. “What — what are you doing here? Why—” he catches sight of Geralt hovering in the doorway. “You weren’t supposed to tell,” he says, panic pulling his voice thin, eating through his scent like lye. He sees Eskel flinch — as if he can’t bare the sight of him — and Lambert’s attention snaps back to the man in front of him. “I’m sorry,” he pleads, scrambling over, reaching out to touch but snatching himself away. “Eskel I’m sorry I — I can be good, please, I can I — I’ll do anything — please.” He lurches forwards as if possessed, hands pawing frantically at Eskel’s trousers — trying to undo the ties; the realisation a cold, slimy knife twisting in Eskel’s gut.

“Lambert _stop_ ,” he orders, prying Lambert’s hands away by the wrists. 

As if burned, the younger man drops them immediately, drawing them back to lay obediently in his lap. “Eskel _please,_ ” he begs, face red and wet and tortured, voice fraught with the strain of speaking as he sobs. _“_ I can — I can be good I swear — I can be better, please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, let me be good for you, Eskel—”

“No no, Lambert.” Realising his mistake, Eskel draws the smaller man to his chest, holding his convulsing form close. “You don’t — you don’t have to do that,” he soothes. “You’re already good Lamb, you don’t have to do anything, you’re always so good for me.”

“But you told me not to play that way and I did and—”

“Ssh, ssh, it’s okay, it’s okay, I promise I’m not mad.” He rubs a firm, broad hand up and down the length of Lambert’s back, trying to warm his icy skin, to calm his body in the hopes that it does something to calm his mind. There’s a faint rustle as Geralt shifts his weight, and he feels Lambert immediately jerk in response, choking back a sob. “Fuck off Geralt,” he says coldly, knowing the only other option would put the already distraught man in his arms even more on edge. 

“But—”

“Fuck off.”

There’s a quiet whisper of air as Geralt goes, and Lambert relaxes, just a fraction, into his hold, his skin becoming wet with Lambert’s tears as he cries in that painfully silent way he always does. “Please,” Lambert suddenly begs, his voice soft but still tight with fear, “please don’t go Eskel. Please—”

“I’m not going anywhere Lambert,” Eskel replies, murmuring the words against his ear, hoping that if he feels them they’ll be easier to believe. “I’m never leaving you.”

He wants to stay there — to keep Lambert in his arms until he stops shaking, until he’s not scared anymore, until everything’s better again, but when he looks down he can see Geralt’s _fucking come_ leaking out of him, running down his legs, dripping onto the cold stone floor, and he can’t imagine that’s helping any. He wrestles his rising anger back down, knowing the smell of it will only set Lambert off again. “Why don’t we get you cleaned up, hm? Springs will warm you up nice and good.” 

Lambert nods shakily against him, wincing at the sticky soreness as he pulls away. His whole body’s shivering, but his legs in particular tremble in a way that emphatically does not inspire confidence and he doesn’t have a stitch on him. 

“Let me carry you,” Eskel says, hands already holding Lambert’s elbows, rubbing his thumbs in circles. Lambert won’t look at him, but nods his assent anyway. Drawing the smaller man’s arms up to hook around his neck, he lifts him by the hips and guides his legs to wrap around his waist. Another strangled whine escapes his chest as Eskel braces an arm under him, and he presses closer, burying his face in the crook of Eskel’s neck. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again — for what, Eskel isn’t entirely sure.

“It’s okay Lamb, you’ve nothing to be sorry for.” Lambert only clings tighter, a fresh wave of tears falling onto Eskel’s shoulder. 

They stop by his room on the way down, for a towel and fresh clothes; the smell of stale sex hangs in the air, and he feels Lambert go rigid, his heart rate picking up, and he squirms just a little in Eskel’s hold — as if fighting the urge to run. They won’t be coming back here later. 

Once in the springs, he lowers Lambert into the hot water, and brings him soap and a washcloth. There’s nothing Eskel wants more than to go in and bathe Lambert himself, like he always does, but he knows the other man won’t be able to stand the sight of him naked, might not be able to handle being touched like that. Lambert takes the offered items with unsteady hands, and quickly scrubs his arms and torso but falters just below his hips, instead skipping down to his legs. Once done with his near violent ablutions, he returns his attention to the offending area, but can’t bring himself to do anything. “I— I can’t — I can’t—”

“Ssh ssh okay, okay” Eskel rushes to stave off another breakdown and jumps into the water, trousers and all. He takes Lambert by the elbows again, head tilted down to match Lambert’s as he stares at his useless hands. “You want me to help?” 

Lambert nods frantically. “Please,” he chokes out, sobbing again. “Please help.” 

“Okay, okay.” Eskel moves closer and Lambert's head drops to his shoulder. “Do you want me to do it quickly or do you want me to get all of it?”

“All of it — please — I’m sorry.”

Eskel wraps an arm around his torso, holding him steady, his other hand gentle but methodical, keeping it brief while being thorough. He could be fucking mauling Lambert for the effect it has; eyes squeezed tightly shut, face and scent burning with shame, ragged gasps tearing out from his chest as he whines quietly in a desperate attempt to keep himself from blubbering. 

Once he’s sure he’s cleaned out all the come and slick, Eskel gives Lambert’s cock a cursory wipe, passes the washcloth over his inner thighs for good measure. “Okay, okay I’m done,” he says, and Lambert slams back into him. “I’m done, it’s over.” He cradles the back of the younger man’s head as he rocks gently from side to side, until, at least, he’s not gasping for air. “Let’s get you to bed, yeah? Might feel better in the morning.”

Lambert doubts it, but he doesn’t argue as Eskel pulls him out of the water, towels him dry and dresses him in soft, thick clothes. He lets himself be picked up and carried upstairs, even though there’s only a slight tremor running through his body now. Warm, clean, and safe in his lover’s arms, sleep calls to him and he lets it blanket his mind, and sooth the pain in his body to a dull ache. Eyes closed, he doesn’t pay attention to where they’re going, focusing instead on the sway of Eskel’s gait. 

“Vesemir,” his bear-Wolf whispers, “can we use your room?”

Opening the door wider, the old man nods them over to the bed. “What happened?”

“S’just like last time.”

“Looks worse,” he observes, “a lot worse.” 

“It’s worse,” Eskel confirms shortly. 

“Geralt?”

“Mm.” Tight-lipped, more of a grunt than a hum. Vesemir leaves without further question, resigning himself to a sleepless night, and dealing with whatever this is in the morning.

Lambert doesn’t let go when Eskel lays him on the bed, so the latter has to fight to get the blankets out from under them. Once he’s laying down next to Lambert, the arms around his neck slide down, hooking under his arms and pulling him somehow closer. “Please stay,” Lambert mutters sleepily, laying soft, graceless kisses on his neck, and the underside of his jaw. “Please keep me d— Eskel, please, please keep me, I want to stay with you, I always want to stay with you, please let me stay, don’t go, don’t leave me.”

“Oh darling boy,” Eskel whispers, “my little lamb, I love you so much, m’not going anywhere.” He prays to whomever’s listening that it’s enough.

.o.O.o.

There’s naught but embers smouldering in the hearth when Vesemir enters the kitchen. No one but a witcher would be able to make out the brooding form sat at the kitchen table, idly thumbing the lip of a tankard. _Water_ , Vesemir ascertains after a cursory sniff. Good.

Adding a few logs to the fireplace, he brings it to life with a well directed igni, sudden fire fire flaring in the darkness. 

“Thought you said we weren’t supposed to do that.”

“We do a lot of things we shouldn’t.” Vesemir says, curt, but not exactly unkind. He doesn’t turn around as he speaks, warming his hands over the flame. He lets the silence rest, lets Geralt decide if he wants to run away from this. He doesn’t, and Vesemir feels somewhat proud at that. He sits down at the table, across from the other man, takes in the worry and guilt evident in every aspect of his body; the tortured vacancy of his eyes, the set of his jaw, the slump of his shoulders, the tart miasma of sex and misery. _Good,_ he can’t help but think, even though he knows it’s not entirely fair.

It’s only when it becomes clear that Vesemir will not be the one to break the silence that Geralt speaks. “So, I guess you know?” he asks, eyes trained on his hands.

“Eskel brought the lad to my room.”

“And he — he’s okay?” Geralt asks, just barely glancing up.

“He will be.”

Geralt’s shoulders relax a fraction, relief flitting briefly across his face before the guilt comes back full force. “Do you know what’s going on with him?”

“I do.”

“So?”

“It’s not for me to say.”

“Fuck, _Vesemir.”_

“It’s his story pup, not mine.”

Frustrated, Geralt scrubs his face with a low growl. “Can I see him?”

“Not tonight,” Vesemir says, almost regretfully, seeing the closest thing he has to a son so distressed. “Likely not tomorrow either.” Geralt keeps his eyes fixed on his tankard, cold, viscid shame churning in him, growing, becoming septic. “It’s not your fault,” Vesemir says, because he knows it’s true. “You didn’t know.”

“Well it’s not his fault.” Geralt snaps back.

“Didn’t say it was, but he’s going to feel like it is. If all the two of you can do is blame yourselves then you can’t fix this. Be sorry, but don’t let it become the foundation of your relationship.”

“What relationship?” Geralt scoffs. “Hardly think he’s going to want me near him.”

“Ah. I’m afraid that’s where you’re wrong. You’re going to want him to hate you, because you think you deserve it, but he won’t. If anything he’s going to want you more.”

And if that isn’t a baffling notion. “Why?”

Vesemir shrugs. “Because he wants to believe you didn’t mean to hurt him. Because he thinks this is his fault and he has to make it up to you somehow. Because he needs to believe that in spite of everything, he’s still wanted.”

“How do you know?”

“Look at him and Eskel.” He says, then sighs at Geralt’s brow furrows deeper in confusion. “This,” he gestures vaguely, “happened before — when they first started… getting closer. It wasn’t as bad as this but, it happened, and last I checked Lambert was still very much attached to him.”

“Fuck.”

“Indeed.” They sit in silence after that; Geralt trying to wrap his head around it all, and Vesemir there in case he needs guidance. Besides, neither of them have anywhere to go, and sitting together is sure as hell better than trying to pass this night alone.

.o.O.o

Eskel often dreamed of a time where Lambert stays in his arms for days on end. He never imagined that it would be like this; his lover desperately clinging on to him, intermittently begging him to stay even though he’s already said countless times that he’s not going anywhere. He never thought he’d have to watch Lambert staring vacantly at nothing before his face crumples, and tears free fall from his eyes, their salt tang becoming a permanent element of the air they breathe. Each time, he crawls into Eskel’s lap, hands fisting in his shirt, hiding his face, stuttering through chocked sobs _I’m sorry I’m sorry please don’t leave me please let me stay I’ll do anything Eskel please don’t go please still want me please don’t send me away —_ and every time all Eskel can do is hold him as tight as he can, and say over and over again _I love you, it’s okay, you didn’t do anything wrong, I love you, I love you, I love you, I’m not going anywhere, stay Lambert, stay with me, stay with me, I’ve got you, stay with me._

It takes two whole days before Lambert feels well enough to try to run away, in the middle of the night, when he thinks Eskel won’t notice. But a firm hand pulls at his wrist before he can so much as get off the bed. “Stay.” Eskel orders, his eyes betraying every ounce ofhis anxiety. “Don’t go Lambert. I need you to stay, you understand? I need you at least as much as you need me—”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Well I do, and I hate it when you go. Stay here. Stay with me.” There’s really nothing for Lambert to say to that. He’s already fucked up so much, the least he can do is give Eskel what he wants, even if it’s wrong, even if Eskel would clearly be better off without him. Lambert lays back down, and Eskel pulls him close, wrapping him in his arms, his love, his protection. “I love you Lambert,” he murmurs into the smaller man’s hair. “I love you, and I’ll do anything for you, I don’t care if you think you don’t deserve it.” Lambert can only burrow closer, selfishly losing himself in everything Eskel’s offering him.

“I love you too,” he tries, because it’s all he has, even if he knows his love’s not worth a fucking thing. “I love you too.”

.o.O.o.

It’s a terrible feeling, waking up in a cold, empty bed. Terrible, terrifying; miserable and blood-chilling. Lambert screws his eyes tight, hoping for… something, trying to pull up the memories of Eskel wrapped around him, promising himself to him over and over again, trying to figure out if maybe he’d dreamed it all, if it was just his broken mind pouring balm into the cracks. “Stop worrying,” he hears a voice say softly, careful not the tear through the fragile quiet. _Vesemir_. “I sent him for a bath. It’s getting a fair bit ripe in here.”

Opening his eyes, Lambert turns over to see Vesemir sitting in a chair level with his head, a few feet away from the bed. “Here to lecture me, old man?” Lambert asks truculently — warily, his frown so guarded it sends a twisted arrow through Vesemir’s heart

“Of course not,” he says sympathetically, then crooks his head in thought, smiling slightly, amused at himself. “Maybe.”

“Spit it out then.”

“How are you feeling?” the old Wolf asks bluntly, leaning forward, his eyes fixed intently on Lambert’s face.

“Fuckin’ — peachy.” Lambert grumbles, rubbing his eyes with his fists.

The older man reaches over and tenderly swipes the hair from Lambert’s brow. _Greasy_ , he’s going to have to get his youngest to the springs soon too. “We’re worried about you. _Geralt’s_ worried about you.”

“What?” Lambert scoffs, “I broke your Golden Boy? S’that what this is about?”

“You know it’s not.” Vesemir frowns slightly, evidently hurt by the accusation. Lambert has just enough left in him to feel a pang of guilt, settling on his back, stubbornly looking at the ceiling.

“What do you want Ves?” He asks in a small voice; _what could I possibly have left?_

 _“_ I think you should tell them.”

His head whips to the side so fast you’d think he’d been slapped. “Fuck — no!” Vesemir tilts his head to the other side in that annoyingly, fucking — _wolfish_ way he and Geralt always do. It’s not predatory, exactly. It feel’s like they’re holding you in their eyes, considering, regarding, turning you over in their minds — expectant, waiting. Lambert’s not falling for it. The ceiling holds far better intrigue. “Why?” Vesemir prods softly, as if he doesn’t know it would be enough to rend him soundly open, oozing out of himself like panic pouring out of him like smoke from a samum bomb.

“If I — if I tell them,” he gasps through heavy, shallow breaths, “they won’t want me anymore. I can live without Geralt,” he shakes his head, frowning at the bed sheets, “I can but, but Eskel I—” his head snaps up, eyes burning into Vesemir with so much defiance. “If I tell him, he won’t want me anymore. I can’t — I _need_ him, alright?”

“He’s not going anywhere lad, you have to see that by now. And for that matter, I don’t think Geralt is either.” Lambert reverts his gaze heavenward, his attention inward, mulling. “They just want to stop hurting you Lambert. They can’t do that if they don’t know what’s wrong.” He’s right, obviously, and it’s not fair that he’s putting them through this — putting Eskel through this _again_ …

“What’s going on?” Eskel asks from the doorway, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips. So caught up in their battle of wills, neither of them heard him coming. Seeing Lambert’s wrought expression, he makes his way smoothly over to the young wolf’s side, stretching out, giving him easy access. Lambert takes the invitation eagerly, spinning around and burying his faces in the Eskel’s chest, , inhaling the fresh, pure scent of him, letting it steady him.

“Lambert’s decided to join us for breakfast.”

“Has he?” So fucking thrilled. No saying no now.

He presses harder into Eskel, his words muffled “Guess so.” Still, he makes no signs of moving anytime soon, content to hide from the world while his lover strokes the back of his head, all the way down his neck with those warm, massive, fucking magical hands of his.

“I’ll see you both downstairs.” The old Wolf departs, allowing them a few moments privacy, and time for Lambert to properly make up his mind. 

“We don’t have to go,” Eskel says softly, once Vesemir’s out and down the hall, murmuring the words into Lambert’s hair with a kiss, or several. “We can stay here as long as you like. Or go back to my room even, or yours. M’sure Vesemir wouldn’t mind lighting a fire for us.”

“Yeah,” Lambert snorts, “anything to get his room back.”

“He wants the best for you. And so do I, if that was a question.”

Lambert doesn’t respond, holding on to these precious few moments before he ruins everything. He wants so bad for Vesemir to be right, but really, there’s only one way to find out.

“We should go,” he says eventually, sighing as he pushes himself up.

The tantalising smell of fresh sweet pastries wafts through the keep, making Lambert’s mouth water as they make their way down to the kitchen. It’s a nice change from the last few days, when every breath was corrosive with salt of his own distress, when he had no appetite and what food Eskel managed to get him to eat tasted like ash. In his excitement, he almost forgets what he’s about to put himself through.

Vesemir’s pulling a batch of honey cakes out of the oven when they enter, and Geralt’s sat at the table, slumped over and staring at something no one else can see. He perks up at the site of Lambert — startles — makes to get up but changes his mind, unsure how welcome his presence is. Eskel grits his teeth, the hand that had been resting on Lambert’s shoulder tightens unmistakably.

“Heard you’ve been crying over me pretty boy,” Lambert throws out casually, cautiously affected smugness. Geralt freezes in surprise, then huffs out a relieved laugh.

“ _Crying_ might be an overstatement.”

“Or an understatement,” Vesemir mumbles under his breath, applying liberal amounts of soft cheese and dried thyme to the hot cakes.

They eat in silence for the most part, Lambert and Vesemir occasionally trying to puncture the silence with small talk neither of them are particular good at while Eskel buries Geralt under the weight of his ire.

Eventually they finish eating. Eventually their plates are cleared away. Eventually there’s not skirting around the wyvern in the room. They resume their usual seats; Eskel at his side, and Vesemir at the head, leaning back unobtrusively.

“Are you okay?” Geralt asks, in from his not-so-usual seat directly across from Lambert. It’s as good a place to start as any, really.

Lambert doesn’t know how to answer, instead looking imploringly at Vesemir for a little help.

“Lambert has something to tell you,” he says, “to help you understand.” He nods at Lambert then — encouraging. Lambert dips his head in kind, slightly, shakily, studies the woodgrain.

“My dad — my dad, he used to — ah fuck. Well yeah, actually, he used to — to do _that_. To me. At — at night, or when mum was out, he would — he would, well I already said didn’t I?” He looks up at Eskel, eyes red and watery.

“You did,” Eskel rushes to say, to stem the rising flood. “You don’t have to say anymore, we understand.”

Lambert nods again, pressing his lips together, head bent towards the table, and he continues, softer than before. “So there are things that you do that remind me of him and it — I can’t handle it alright?”

“What sort of things?” Eskel asks, his blood churning cold; sick to his stomach at the thought of what happened to the boy who was the man next to him, the man he _loves —_ what _he did_ , no matter how unwittingly. Lambert swallows hard, turns his face slightly away. “ _You need_ to tell me Lamb. I won’t — I _can’t_ give you what what you want if you don’t tell me how to not hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.” He sounds so desperate, so pleading, so agonised — what can Lambert do but comply?

“It’s just — when you pull my hair too hard, or cover my mouth without warning—” his eyes flick anxiously to Eskel, then to Geralt, “or when you says certain things. Especially when you say certain things.”

“Fuck.”

“It wasn’t — it wasn’t you fault.” Lambert’s eyes flick to Geralt and he shrugs. “S’just that some of the things you said, they reminded me of what he used to say, and I could hear him again—” He shudders, and his voices threatens to break and his vision goes blurry all at once, as it has so many _fucking_ times this winter. Leaning on his elbows, he presses his eyes into his hands, as if he could push it all back inside, pack it up and hide it away again. “I know,” he whispers, with all the control he can muster, “I know I shouldn’t want, _that —_ with you. But sometimes I just — fuck, I just _like_ it alright? Because when I call you _that_ , and you treat me — fuck, and you treat me like, you know —“ he gestures vaguely, “it reminds me of him but it’s _not_ him, and it feels _good_ with you. You make me feel good. It’s like — fucking hell, it’s like a palimpsest.” He explains, though it only confuses the Geralt and Eskel, if the twin furrows on their brows, and lost sideways glances are anything to go by.

“Overwriting history?” Vesemir offers.

“Yeah,” Lambert nods, sniffling as he pulls himself up. “Like overwriting history. He — he used to say all the time that I was _his,_ and fuck — I _was_ but I—” he turns on Eskel, so much love and sadness and fear burning in his eyes, “I want to be yours.” He chokes back a sob as those last words leave his mouth, crumbling in on himself once more. Eskel pulls his head to his shoulder, wraps his arms around him, cups the back of his head with his hand — _holding_ him.

“You are mine,” he say’s softly, his words only for Lambert. “You’re mine, and I’m yours, you understand?”

“You don’t — you don’t have to. I know this is a lot—”

“Lambert, I love you. Don’t I always tell you how much I love you?”

“I know you didn’t… you don’t like playing that way.”

“I didn’t like hurting you Lambert. I told you no because I was scared.”

There’s nothing more Lambert wants to do than climb into Eskel’s lap, wrap his arms around his neck, burrow into crook of it and stay there forever. But he pulls himself away, whisper’s “I love you,” into Eskel’s ear with a kiss before turning back to face the table. “So,” he says, slapping his hands on his thighs, “any questions?”

“You knew?” Geralt asks, turning his attention to Vesemir.

“I did,” he responds shortly, hesitantly looking to the youngest Wolf for permission,and continues only when he gets in the form of a slight tilt of the head. “When I went to collect Lambert — the way he acted. Seen it before.”

“You kill him?” Eskel this time, an almost accusing edge to his words; _you better have fucking killed him_.

“I did.”

Lambert turns to look at him, his surprise apparent. “When?”

“Following spring.” Vesemir looks right at him as he speaks. “Went right back to Aedirn first thing.”

He’s stunned, touched, like it never occurred to him that the old Wolf could have cared enough to kill for him.And there are so many questions he has, so much he needs to know, but in the moment it’s too much to think about. “Thank you,” the young Wolf says softly, because it’s all he can.

“The pleasure was all mine.” Vesemir reaches out to Lambert then, with a smile of all things, scratching behind his youngest’s ear. To Geralt’s astonishment, less so to Eskel’s, Lambert happily leans into at, smiling in kind.

“Did you know?” Geralt asks again, cautiously directing his question to Eskel this time — Eskel, who hasn’t looked at him at all unless it was to level him with unfettered anger.

“I had an idea,” he says tersely.

“You did?” Lambert almost squeaks.

“You called me ‘daddy’ during sex and started crying. Doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

Eskel shrugs, “You didn’t want to talk. Figured if I just starting refusing it just wouldn’t be a problem.”

“M’sorry,” Lambert mumbles, nudging at Eskel’s jaw with his head.

“So am I” Eskel replies, rubbing his cheek against Lambert’s temple.

The moment before they can forget themselves entirely, the old Wolf clears his throat. “Now all that’s sorted, perhaps you should take this down to the springs. It’s been a few days,” he says that last part looking straight at Lambert, wearing an expression of exaggerated disapproval. The young man blushes slightly, warm, and rosy, his face lighting up in a way in hasn’t for what feels like a witcher’s lifetime.

Nodding in agreement, he rises, tugging Eskel up after him. “You coming?” he asks from the doorway, half-twisting to look back at Geralt, still sat at the table. Pretty boy startles, dusting a fine shade of pink himself.

“Probably best,” Vesemir mutters, wrinkling his nose.

With a put-upon sigh, Geralt gets up to follow the men who, until a week ago, he would have called his —what? Lovers? _Boyfriends_? Brothers-in-arms-who-fuck-sometimes? — down to the baths. He trails behind them, and Eskel wraps a possessive hand around the scruff of the little Wolf’s neck, pulling him closer to his side.

He understands, really, how colossally he fucked up, he understands that Eskel just means _more_ to Lambert than Geralt does, and that it’s been that way for fucking _years._ He understands that, right now at least, Lambert probably needs Eskel — his comfort, his protection, the assurance of him still _being there —_ a hell of a lot more than he needs Geralt. He _knows_ this, it’s just — well where does that leave him? Because he fucking _loves_ Lambert, that much is certain. Hard to deny when it feels like he’s been pummelled with that fact since that night; Geralt _loves_ him, and he’s done nothing but hurt him.

So when they split off to go get towels and fresh clothes, he thinks maybe he shouldn’t go back down. But the look Eskel gives him when they part says in no uncertain terms that, even if the other wolf’s trophy knife has been stayed for now, that’s subject to change at a moment’s notice. And Lambert asked him to go so, he goes.

Lambert’s already in the water when he gets there, lazily swimming on his back while Eskel lays down on the warm stones, having already bathed that morning. He can feel their eyes following him as he skirts around the pool, settling in on the far side. He isn’t looking when Lambert turns to Eskel with an anxious frown, but he sees it anyway. “Don’t be an idiot Geralt,” the older Wolf’s voice a low rumbling, echoing in the cavern. “M’not going to bite.”

Cautiously, with as much mistrust as one can expect, he wades over to the other side, a few feet away from them. Still not the right move, apparently, if the way Lambert purses his lips, and casts his eyes to the water is anything to go by. “I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, still looking away, “about… everything. It wasn’t fair to you” He takes a deep, bracing breath. “We don’t — you don’t — I understand if—”

“Lambert,” Geralt says eagerly, sure that it’s imperative he speaks before the other man can finish, knows, beyond a shadow of doubt that he won’t like the ending. “Can I wash your hair?” There’s a snort of laughter from where Eskel lays, one forearm draped over his eyes, his other hands skimming the water and Lambert’s back in turn. But Geralt continues to look at Lambert imploringly, waits for him to look back. He does, frowning in confusion, trying to puzzle out what’s happening.

“Why?”

Geralt only shrugs. “Because I’d like too.”

“You don’t have too—“

“I _want_ to, if — if it’s okay with you. I want to.”

He waits, lets Lambert come to him, can’t help the smile that breaks across his face when he does, can’t help but pull at him — perhaps a bit overzealously — to sit on the step below him. Just like the first time, he marvels at how perfectly Lambert fits between his knees. “Is this okay?” he asks, slowing brushing his hands across Lambert’s shoulders.

He nods slowly, then, “Yeah. Yeah that’s fine.”

A pitcher mysteriously appears on the lip of the pool behind him. Or perhaps not so mysteriously, considering how Eskel seems suddenly to be a few feet further away, maybe breathing a little harder than before. Geralt scoops up some water, carefully shields Lambert’s eyes with his hand and pours it over his hair, slowly, so that he feels the warm streams caress his scalp. “How does that feel?”

“Good,” Lambert says, his eyes closed in bliss, head tilting back.

A smile tugs at Geralt’s mouth as he works up a lather, turning soap in his hands underwater. “This alright?” he asks again, massaging Lambert’s scalp, vaguely aware of Eskel, laying on his side and watching with equal parts curiosity and amusement.

“Mhm.”

“How about this?” He tugs at Lambert’s hair — lightly — on either side of his head, tilting his had back further. Lambert opens his eyes, surprised but not scared, looking at Geralt, blinking up at him, his eyelashes elegant — if that’s a thing eyelashes can be; dark and curly and ridiculously long.

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, his voice low, barely above a whisper, almost hoarse with the sudden swell of emotion in his chest.

“You didn’t know—“

“I still hurt you Lambert, and I’m still sorry.” Lambert doesn’t move away, but his eyes dart to the side. “Hey,” Geralt calls him back from whatever edge he was so clearly swaying on. Lambert’s eyes snap back to his. “Doing alright?”

“You still want me — this?”

“Yes,” Geralt says, resting their foreheads together, “and yes. If you’ll have me.”

“Kiss?”

Geralt wants more than anything to say yes again, but some part of him _knows_ it’s not right, and Eskel’s tense and watching them. So instead he wraps his hands around Lambert hips, pulls him up, turns him around so that Lambert’s on his lap and they’re chest to chest. He kisses between his eyes, down his nose, lips brushing chastely on his — Lambert’s chases after him as he pulls away. He wraps on hand around his waist, the other guiding Lambert’s head to rest on his shoulder, then playing at the nap of his neck. Turning his head just enough, Geralt presses a thousand kisses on to his temple — trying, for all that he’s worth, the tell him that he’s safe there, in Geralt’s arms, then he’ll never hurt him again.

Later, when Lambert gets tired, the high emotions of the morning catching up with him, they retire — to Eskel’s room this time. There’s a fire burning, and all the window’s are shut but clearly the room’s been aired out because it smells fresh — clean. Lambert dives straight into the neatly made bed, longing for the sweet embrace of sleep and soft sheets. Eskel follows immediately, climbing in and wrapping his arms around the little Wolf, but Geralt hesitates, proceeds with more caution. He slots himself in at Lambert’s back, even though he can feel _intruder_ screaming through his body. Until, of course, Lambert grabs his hand and simply drops it on his head, demanding to be pet. Geralt slowly cards his hand through his hair; soft and wavy without the usual wax. Despite having slept for the most part of the last few days, he falls asleep easily, but this time it’s without tears, this time he smells clean, and happy, and warm, this time there isn’t a single coil of tension in his body; he’s soft, loose-limbed, his mouth slightly parted, this time his breathing doesn’t stutter, and there’s no soft whine as his face contorts at the hands of some spectral evil.

“He get’s very sleepy,” Geralt observers, his brow creasing in thought, “when he…”

“Has feelings?” Eskel offers, smirking a bit

“Mm.” Geralt agrees, frowning deeper.

“Yeah,” Eskel chuckles, “I’ve been calling it his emotional narcolepsy.”

“To his face?” Geralt frowns more even as his eyebrows shoot to his hairline with incredulity.

“Gods no — just in my head. And to Vesemir, when it’s come up.” He holds Lambert suddenly tighter, burying his nose in his hair and inhaling deeply as he resumes combing his fingers through inky black swirls, still damp from his bath, and settling into loose curls.

“I’m not — I’m not sure how to do this part,” Geralt confesses, the undercurrent of worry and guilt evident in the timber of his voice.

“You can’t run away Geralt.” Eskel warns — or he tries to, but it comes out pleading. “He needs you now.”

“I’m not — “ he says immediately, his hand gripping Lambert’s ribs lightly, as if tethering himself. “I just — I need you to show me. You’re so good with him and I — I don’t want to hurt him again.”

“I know,” Eskel softens, “it’s okay, I can help.” Geralt nods in response, still contemplative as he resumes rubbing the small man’s back. “But I… need you to help me too.”

“Hm?”

“I have a feeling you’re better with the whole… ‘daddy’ thing than I am. Don’t think I was giving him what he really needed before.”

“Mm… maybe just with the sex part.”

“How do mean?” Eskel asks, confusion sliding from Geralt’s face to his.

“He likes… this, doesn’t he? Being taken care of? _You_ taking care of him”

“So?”

“He said it was about — hm… ‘over-writing the past’. So, makes sense if it was about this too.”

Like sun through storm clouds, understanding breaks through the frown on Eskel’s face when he realises Geralt might very well be right, and warmth blooms in his chest. This? _This_ he can do. But then, “He never said anything…” Because Lambert _hadn’t,_ had he?

“Probably didn’t want to think about it like that. Or didn’t want you to know. Or me, clearly.”

“I guess,” Eskel concedes, still fraught.

“We could ask him.”

“Probably should.” He stares down at Lambert a little longer before heaving a heavy sigh, hand dropping to his upper back and holding him closer. “We should get some sleep too. He’s probably going to be up all night.”

“Eskel?”

“Hm?”

“I think I love him.”

A smile breaks across Eskel’s face — more amused than anything else, much to Geralt’s bafflement. “I know.”

“Eskel?”

“Yes Geralt.”

“I love you too.”

Half rising, Eskel leans over Lambert and plants a kiss on the other man’s forehead, lips smacking loudly, firm. “Go to sleep Geralt.”

So he does, press up against his — _their_ baby boy’s back, nose tucked into his hair. It’s not perfect, this moment, there’s still too much hanging over them for that, but it still smells sweet.

.o.O.o.

Everything’s… fine, for the next week or so. Nice even. They all sleep in the same bed now, with Lambert tucked cozily in the middle. They kiss goodnight, and morning, and a countless times in between. Whatever tension there was between the older Wolves has been thrown aside in favour of their old affection. But they won’t touch Lambert like they did before; hands stay over his clothes, above his hips, and always so _light._ Not soft, not gentle — _light._

He doesn’t understand, can’t figure it out as he lays awake in the early morning, trapped between their bodies heavy with sleep. They _said_ they still want him, and they’ve been good to him — _Eskel_ has been _so good_ to him, and Geralt’s trying so hard, and being so patient…

So even though his mind’s screaming at him that it’s all a lie, and he can feel the familiar urge to _run_ building under his skin, he _knows_ that he owes it to them to — fuck — he knows he has to _talk to them_.

He fully intends to to wait patiently for them to wake up, but the longer he lays there, nothing but the sound of their breathing and his thoughts for company, the more he can feel himself start to spiral. In an attempt to retain a modicum of composure, he resists the urge to shake Eskel awake, instead pinching both his and Geralt’s noses until they wake up. Anywhere outside Kaer Morhen and they’d have started swinging immediately, but at home, and sound asleep, it’s a long moment before they shoot up, gasping for air.

“What the fuck Lambert,” Geralt grunts as he sputters for air.

Eskel looks like he’s thinking much the same question, but Lambert’s lips are pressed into a stiff line, and he’s frowning at the sheets. “What’s wrong?” he asks softly.

Lambert shuffles down to the foot of the bed, draws his legs up and loosely wraps his arms around his knees. The older Wolves sit up against the headboard, and wait. “I thought,” he starts, the words taut, like it’s taking everything he has to keep from sobbing them out. He realises then that he’s shaking. “I thought that if I told you’d let me — I thought that we could —“ His jaw clicks shut before he can finish, trapping the words behind his teeth.

“Lambert —“ Geralt, his voice dripping with sadness — _pity._

 _“_ I fucking _told you_ , you _bastards._ ” He scrubs at his face as he throws out the words. _“_ I’ve never told anyone and you — I fucking get it alright? I’m too broken. No one wants a broken toy. Fine, I get it. It’s fine. You don’t — you don’t have to be _nice_ to me. I don’t want your _fucking_ _pity_ alright? Just — just leave me the fuck alone.”

“Lambert,” Eskel says imploringly, him by the elbows, pulling him onto his lap and prying his hands aways from his face. Following his lead, Geralt scoots toward the foot of the bed, and begins rubbing Lambert’s back reassuringly. “We just — we just need some time, alright?” Eskel nuzzles closer, his lips moving against Lambert’s skin as he speaks, then adds, so softly Geralt almost doesn’t hear, “ _I_ need some time.” Lambert nods, throwing his arms around his neck, pulling tight and burrowing into the crook of his neck. “Please be patient with me,” Eskel murmurs into his ear.

“You’re sure you still want me?”

“Of course I do.”

“And — and you’ll be my daddy?” he asks, painfully soft, voice catching in his throat.

“What does that _mean_ Lamb? _”_ Lambert stiffens in his arms, and tries to full away, but Eskel only holds him tighter.

 _“_ I don’t — what do _you_ mean?”

“Being your daddy,” he elaborates, crooning into Lambert’s ear almost seductively — enticingly, keeping him there. “Is it just about sex, or is it about this too? About us looking after you.”

Lambert doesn’t speak for a long while as he considers the question. Under the firm, gentle attention of Geralt’s hand, he relaxes a little into Eskel’s hold and, then a little more, so much so they wonder if he’s fallen asleep again. “I don’t know,” he admits eventually. “Maybe.”

“Would you like to try it?”

“What? Just — calling you ‘daddy’ whenever?”

“Whenever it feels right,” Geralt suggests.

“Do _you_ want to try it?” Lambert pulls away so that he can study Eskel’s face as he answers.

“I like taking care of you,” he shrugs, “you know that. S’not going to change, no matter what you call me.”

Satisfied — at least for now — Lambert turns to fix Geralt with a questioning look.

“I —” he clears his throat, staring resolutely at the air above Lambert’s ear. “I’d like that,” he admits.

The young wolf rests his head on Eskel’s shoulder once again, mulling over their proposal. “Maybe we can try it,” he whispers, tentatively, trembling with something like hope, perhaps even approaching excitement. 

.o.O.o.

It starts with a small _thank you daddy_ after Eskel washes his hair; again, the following day, when Geralt massages his neck and shoulders. There’s a _please daddy —_ Lambert holding out a comb — then _goodnight daddy,_ one to each of them, preceding a soft kisses on the lips

And then one morning, the first dust of purple brushing the horizon, Lambert slips out of bed quiet as he can, and pads to the window to watch the sun trickle over snow covered mountains. By the time Eskel stirs, he’s bathed in golden light, standing with one arm resting on the lintel, his other hand loosely clutching a tankard of water. He hears the slide of linen as he raises it to his lips, followed by footsteps he can identify by sound, then scent, then the arm curling around his waist, the broad hand rubbing stomach. “Come back to bed little lamb,” his sleep-rough voice rumbles in his ear. “Daddy has a present for you.” It’s not much of a surprise though, if the hard prick grazing his skin is anything to go by. Lambert twists around, a smile that Eskel thinks is more beautiful than any sunrise breaking across his face. The smaller man wraps his arms around the larger’s neck. Eskel lifts his lover easily by the waist, and Lambert notches his legs above his hips, allowing himself to be carried back to bed.

Eskel’s smiling as he pulls off Lambert’s braes, smiles more when he pushes up Lambert’s shirt only to be stopped with a grumbled “S’cold,” before he can pull it off.Lambert’s cock is already half hard against his thigh, and Eskel bends to give it a would-be-chaste kiss on it’s ruddy pink head, his fingers slipping down the soft skin of Lambert’s perineum, eliciting a sharp gasp when a calloused pad grazes his hole. Eskel smirks with a small huff of laughter.

“Think you’re ready?”

“Fuck yeah,” Lambert replies at once, his back arching towards the man above him. “Are you?”

“Yeah,” Eskel’s says, kissing his forehead, lips sliding down his temple before eventually mouthing at his ear. Preoccupied as he is, Eskel fumbles a little as he takes both their cocks in hand, stroking them painfully slow until they’re both hard and leaking.

“Fuck — Eskel,” Lambert gasps, all ready strung out after weeks of nothing. He can feel Eskel’s lips curling into a smirk against his ear, and somewhere in the recesses of his mind thinks _bastard._

“Should I get the slick?”

Lambert almost squawks in indignation, eyes bugging out before he sees the tease dancing across Eskel’s face.

“You’re a dick.”

Eskel doesn’t respond, instead flipping Lambert’ over easily, one hand and his chest and the other on the small of his back. As it always does, waves of cinnamon _want_ crash into the air, so thick he can almost feel it on his skin. He lets himself drown in it as he prowls up Lambert’s body, reaching under the pillow to retrieve the tin of slick he’d put there to warm, and works his way back down with a trail of kisses from the inky black scrolls of Lambert’s hair to the dimples at the small of his back. The younger man’s legs fall open easily, and he settles himself between them. It’s a beautiful sight; the dips and curves of lean muscle floating in the soft morning light. He slides slicked finger’s down silky skin, relishing the squeeze of his pert arse cheeks. Truly, Eskel’s an expert at playing Lambert’s body, and it’s not long before he has him panting and squirming on his fingers.

Next to them, Geralt stirs from his slumber, eyes squinting open. He smiles at the scent oftheir mixed arousal; warm, rich, sweet and spicy, and it widens at the sight of his lovers. Half rising, he inches closer and kisses Eskel softly on the mouth. He slicks up his hand and, still kissing, coats the other man’s cock getting him ready for their little Wolf. Once done he run his hands through Lambert’s hair, gently tugging so that they’re face to face.

“Good morning,” he says, stroking the flushed skin with the backs of his fingers. 

“Morning,” Lambert manages, voice strained. Geralt kisses him too, then looks at Eskel for permission before lifting Lambert by the ribs and settling him on his back.

“Have fun,” he says, brushing his lips on Lambert’s eyelids before nestling back on the other side of the bed. 

Eskel hooks his hands around the back of Lambert’s knees and slings his legs around his waist before guiding the thick, blunt head of his cock into the ring of relaxed muscle. He goes slowly, carefully working himself into that tight, wet heat inch by glorious inch with small, measured rolls of his hips until they finally meet Lambert’s.

“You okay baby?” He asks, dropping his forehead to Lambert’s, one large hand rubbing the heated flesh of his torso while the other arm brackets his head, fingers sliding into his silky hair.

“Yeah,” Lambert rasps, “just move already.” He tilts his head up to catch Eskel’s mouth in biting kiss, hot puffs of air fluttering over the larger man’s sweaty skin. Heat shudders down Eskel’s spine and he has no choice but to comply, stuttering forward gracelessly before he collects himself enough to move with something resembling elegance. He _knows_ Lambert’s body, perhaps better than his own; knows how to play him _just so —_ how to elicit each moan and breathless whine, how to bring him to the heights of pleasure and ferry him safely back down. So he knows now that Lambert’s holding back, and he has a feeling he knows why.

“What is it lamb? Say what you need.”

“More?” Lambert gasps, screwing his eyes shut, pressing them hard with the heels ofpalms. Just because Eskel said — it doesn’t mean — but Eskel _said —_ “Please daddy, more?” A surge of panic shoots through him as he feels the body above him, _inside_ him, slow down, but Eskel doesn’t stop, still rocking into him gently as he pries Lambert’s hands away from his face.

“You look at your daddy when you come, understood little lamb?” Lambert nods his head vigorously as heat floods his face, brimming over and soaking every inch of his body.

Eskel takes both his wrists in either hand, pinning them above his head. He adjusts the angle of his hips, rolling in deeper, faster, rubbing against Lambert’s sweet spot with brutal precision. He presses a kiss onto his lamb’s forehead, and breathes against his skin, “Daddy loves you baby boy.” Lambert arches off the bed as his vision whites out, ecstasy spilling out of him, spattering both his body and Eskel’s. The sight and pull of his body is all it takes to send the larger man tipping over the edge, the warmth of his release pooling deep in Lambert’s body.

Geralt rouses from his laze enough to shuffle closer, dipping his head to lick up the seed from Lambert’s stomach, then thighs, his tongue alternating without pattern between broad puppy laps and kitten licks.

It’s not many days after that Geralt has him pressed up against the wall of the armoury, hands roaming up his body, under his shirt, gripping the meat of his ribs and murmuring _say it again_ as Lambert moans _daddy daddy daddy daddy_ ; soon after that, they have him one after the other, Lambert riding Geralt before Eskel bends him over and takes him just like that, draping himself over his back, Geralt’s hands cupping his jaw, stroking his cheek and stroking with his hair and saying over and over again _so beautiful little lamb, so good for us._

.o.O.o.

They stay ’til much later than they usually do , at Vesemir’s insistence — “Winter’s are for rest, not —” he clucked, irritably flapping his hands at them over breakfast, “ _drama._ Stay longer. Get some fucking sleep.” Lambert opened his mouth to argue but was quickly cut off by Eskel squeezing his thigh, kissing his ear and murmuring _please, baby_. His mouth clicked shut, and, looking at the old Wolf, there was no denying the real concern in those tired, wrinkled eyes.

So, they stay a bit. It’s not so bad. There’s plenty they’d neglected to do after all — patching up clothes, sorting out rations for those first few weeks on the Path when contracts are sparse; Lambert still has that commission to finish, and his yearly remittance to Eskel for putting up with his shit. The day Vesemir summons Lambert to his office, sunlight streams in through the high windows in thick, watery ribbons, the flagstones are no longer cold underfoot, and even in the musty, crumbling keep, the air smells green. Some might be tempted to call it pleasant. The young Wolf goes, freshly bound book in hand; the glue’s still a bit wet but it’ll be weeks a few weeks before Vesemir goes to meet the buyer, so he’s none too concerned.

But Vesemir isn’t alone; Eskel’s sat in the corner behind the large oak desk, arms crossed. He shifts his weight uncomfortably when Lambert enters the room, refusing to look at him.

“What the fuck’s this then?” He puts the book on the table with a loud _thump_ , would have just dropped it if he hadn’t worked so fucking hard on it.

“Sit down,” Vesemir says mildly, pointing at the chair across from him. Lambert hooks an eyebrow, Vesemir cocks his head, Lambert sits down, pulling the chair out at an odd angle and spreading his knees unnecessarily wide.

“So?”  
Vesemir reaches across the table for the book, carefully flipping through it. “Very good. I like —”

“What the fuck do you want?” Lambert cuts him off sharply, fast rising annoyance already turning to bile.

“You’re travelling with Eskel this year.”

“Oh?” he sneers, looking at the man in questions and back again. “And why would that be?”

“I have concerns about you travelling alone,” Vesemir answers plainly.

“What did you tell him?” the young Wolf asks, turning on Eskel.

“That you’re having nightmares, and that they all sound like they’re about the same thing, that you’re not sleeping enough, that I wake up when it’s still dark and you’re not there, and you only come back at dawn.”

“So?”

“So you can’t survive on the Path that way. You won’t.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Let me make sure.” He walks over to Lambert then, crouches between his knees and takes his hands. “Don’t want to lose you Lamb. I can’t —” he inhales sharply, heavily, as if catching his breath, “I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but I want to be there for you, make sure you’re safe, make sure you have something to hold on to,” _make sure you come back._ He raises a hand to Lambert’s face, fingers lightly scratching behind his ear, thumb stroking his temple. Exhaustion is written all over all over him, carved into the sockets of his eyes and painted in bruised shadows. “Travel with me,” he says softly, “I won’t be able to stop worrying otherwise.” He doesn’t say the magic words, but they hang clearly in the air, might as well have spelt it out in the clouds; _for me_. As if Lambert could ever deny him.

“Why’d you have to get the old man involved?” Lambert grumbles.

“Thought it might be easier.” The younger man frowns at him curiously, the beginnings of a smirk on his lips. “I never said it was a good plan.” Lambert snorts in laughter and they hear Vesemir huff, see him roll his eyes from the corners of theirs.

“Path can’t support both of us. We’ll starve.”

“You already have enough coin to last you a full year,” Vesemir points out, “and I gave Eskel more, just in case.”

“You’ll get sick of me.” Lambert says, looking at Eskel very seriously.

But it only makes the other man laugh, warm and rich, rolling out from his belly. “You’re an idiot,” he says, kissing Lambert smack between the eyebrows and resting their foreheads together, noses rubbing. “I could never get sick of you.”

“Leave please.” Vesemir’s drones as he pointedly examines the book, cutting through the blooming intimacy, anticipating their getting carried away.

Eskel rises first, keeping Lambert’s hand in his, pulling him up. Neither of them let go. He starts for his room, but stops when he feels Lambert tugging his arm. “Want to show you something,” he mumbles, pulling him toward the library. ‘Something’ turns out to be just what Eskel expects; a new, hand bound, slim volume of poetry. An epic this time, and a few shorter ones. He knows a lot of them already, so he picks up on the central motif easily; lovers, fighting against the gods and hell and all else to make sure they keep each other. The youngest Wolf can make fun of his love of poetry all he wants but he’s still a sentimental bastard at heart.

“Thank you, Lambert,” he says softly, running his hands on the cover. Every year Lambert does this and every year Eskel’s blown away by gesture, by the amount of time and care and attention he pours into this blatant, silent show of his devotion. A smile breaks across his face, the one that always whips up a swooping feeling in Lambert’s stomach.

“What?”

“I can read it to you when we’re out on the Path.” He pulls Lambert to him before he can protest, kissing him deep and sweet.

.o.O.o.

The night before they leave is cool, and crisp, and verdant, the stars out in their full, blazing glory. Lambert’s passed out, tucked cozily between Geralt and Eskel, well and truly spent after a vigorous evening of making love. His arse is pressed against Eskel’s pelvis, cheek smushed into Geralt’s chest. There’s one hand on his hip, another on playing with his hair, and he smiles in his sleep, a dazzling thing that can only be described as innocent. It stirs something warm in Geralt’s chest, but the feeling is immediately snuffed when Lambert turns, and he clumsily rubs his face up Eskel’s neck, looking for a kiss. Eskel obliges, turning his head to brush their noses together, then kissing him once, twice, countless times, on the lips and every where else. Lambert smiles wider, brighter, and squirms closer, burrowing his face into the crook of Eskel’s neck.

“He’s beautiful isn’t he?” The other man says, holding him close and nuzzling into his hair. Geralt doesn’t respond — can’t, mouth suddenly cotton dry, and full of longing he can’t speak around. Eskel looks at him then, sees the slightly sour turn of his face. “He’ll be like this with you too, it just takes time.”

“Hm.”

“Hey, look at me.” He waits until Geralt does. “Just takes time, I promise. He and I’ve had years together.” Geralt doesn’t look convinced, frowning more at the thought of those years, and how much he has to make up for. “C’mere,” Eskel sighs, “rub his back.” Scooting closer, he does as he’s told, earning himself a contented sigh and happy wiggle from the littlest Wolf. “See?” Eskel says at his responding smile. It’s enough, for now. It’s enough.

They talk for awhile, then just listen to the sounds of the low, crackling fire and Lambert’s breathing. Geralt doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have done because he wakes up, roused by the sound of Lambert whimpering raggedly, his face screwed tight.

“Lambert,” he calls softly, shaking him lightly by the shoulder. “Baby, wake up.” Eskel’s laying on his stomach, his back turned to them, and Geralt’s careful not to wake him. Because Geralt can do this on his own, _wants_ to, and Eskel has a full season ahead of him.

Already well versed in the art of waking Lambert up from these nightmares gently, he shuffle closer, wraps his hand around the back of Lambert’s head and scratches at the nape of his neck, speaking against his ear. “Wake up baby, wake up, wake up, wake up, everything’s okay just open your eyes…" he says until he hears a frail,

“Daddy?” and Lambert’s peering up at him, brow furrowed, squinting as his eyes adjust, searching for Geralt.

“Hi baby,” he coos, carding back the little Wolf’s sweat-damp hair, and smoothing his brow with a gentle thumb.

“I had a bad dream.” His voice still small, and heartbreakingly vulnerable.

“I know baby, but you’re awake now. Here,” Geralt twists to get a mug from the bedside table, “drink some water.” He helps Lambert up slightly, and holds the mug to his lips while he drinks.

Lambert turns his face away when he’s had enough, and moves to lay his head on Geralt’s chest. The older man resumes his scratching as the younger gradually comes back to himself. “Thanks,” he says eventually, voice rough but more alert.

“Mmm. Try to get some more sleep. Long day tomorrow.”

Lambert protests with a _mmrph_ , squirming somehow closer, wrapping around Geralt tighter; clinging to him in a way both sad and profoundly sweet. “So.” Geralt can feel his smirk against his neck, but the residual stink of fear is hard to miss, and his heart is still a beat too fast. “You gonna miss me?”

“Yes,” he says plainly. “Go—”

“Sap.”

“Go back to sleep baby,” turning his face slightly, he runs his nose along Lambert’s hairline before kissing his forehead, “I’ll be right here.” He rubs Lambert’s arm, his back, plays with his hair, gentling him all the ways he knows how, telling him with his hands that it’s safe here, in Geralt’s arms. He’s safe.

Just when he think’s Lambert’s fallen asleep, he starts kissing and nipping at the tender skin of Geralt’s neck. “Gonna miss you too,” he confesses, barely above a whisper. Geralt can feel the warmth of his blush, smell its doughy warmth. He inhales, letting it seep into his gut, his chest, his bones, saving it for the long months he’ll have to go without. It’s not one of the _I love yous_ he shares so freely with Eskel, but it is a promise; a promise that this _means something_ , that _Geralt_ means something to him, and it’s hope that it’ll last.

**Author's Note:**

> Abusive language is in italics, in the paragraph starting "Only half awake and more than a little drunk..." Lambert experiences a pretty server drop after this scene, particularly the paragraph starting "Lambert looks up from where his face was hidden behind his knees..." and ending roughly at the paragraph starting "Once he’s sure he’s cleaned out all the come and slick..."
> 
> Discussions of Lambert's past and his triggers are in vague terms, but start after the line, "Lambert dips his head in kind, slightly, shakily, studies the woodgrain." and ends around "“It wasn’t — it wasn’t you fault.” Lambert’s eyes flick to Geralt and he shrugs..."
> 
> If I missed anything in the tags are you feel something needs a more explicit warning, please let me know ♥︎
> 
> Comments are always appreciated ♥️


End file.
